


Part Of The Legend : Origins

by Quiet_Shadow



Series: Seiberutopia Tales Online [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Video Game World, Angst and Humor, Bullying, Cybertron, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, MMORPGs, Multi, Original Character(s), Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Therapy, Video & Computer Games, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2020-01-07 11:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18409886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: Optimus tries to reconstruct his life after getting expelled from the Academy. Ratchet is left bitter by the war. Bulkhead can't seem to fit along with his classmates. Bumblebee wants a chance to show he's unique. Prowl lives with the weight of guilt on his shoulders.At least, until...Become Part of the Legend! Join Seibertopia Tales Online!When real life isn't fun, everybody need some time off. So take the time to connect and to discover the wonders of Seibertopia Tales Online, Cybertron's Number 1 MMORPG, where one can fight rivals and enemies, heal allies, wander the land in search of treasures, fish in streams, rivers and seas, craft items and live incredible adventures in far away digital lands.And, who knows? Perhaps through your trials and tribulations, you'll meet the love of your life, renew with old acquaintances, make enemies for life, mend broken relationships, try to convince your friends not to commit real-life murder on your behalf, punch out legendary players in the face (repeatedly), learn to curse your (bad) luck, build yourself an unwitting harem, heal from your traumas, or find the family and home your Spark always wished to have...





	1. Origins. Optimus 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ladies and gentlemen and other gendered beings, I welcome you *bows down*
> 
> Let's have a foreword before letting the ball rolls.
> 
> This story was my Nano project for 2018. An old idea I had for many years now, ever since I saw some SAO episodes for the first time in fact, but never acted on due to various reasons. When unsure of what to pick for Nano last november, I ended up thinking now would be as good time as any and I put myself to work, reworking the original plans until I got the current ones.  
> I had so many ideas and plans, so many notes -- like, almost a dozen pages worth of outline on Word, not to mention a dozen of Excel sheets with details. That should have rung my alarm bells right away. Because the story, once I started typing? It turned far more massive than I had first expected. By the end of November, I had officially reached Nano goal and went far beyond, reaching 70k worth of text. And the worse, though? Those 70k barely cover the first five points of the outline and only the five(six) 'main' characters, aka Team Optimus, whereas I had many more I wanted to add and play with. How the hell did that happen? X_X O_o
> 
> I won't lie, writing so much in so little time took a lot out of me, so I put writing the rest of the story on hold for now. That said, I wanted to still share what I wrote already, and here it is.
> 
> And you want to know the other funny/not funny thing? That story was first imagined as an honest to god comedy. I had plenty of ideas for humorous ficlets, including the Inevitable Gender Bending plot, Megatron the Angrily Clucking RobotHen (should I explain? ^^), the Ratchet Protection Squad (featuring, I must mention, a fem!Sunstreaker and her pet Insection Bob) putting the fear of Primus into people, and Optimus being goofy over learning that Primus' Champion Is My Therapist.
> 
> Instead, the 70k I wrote are... an angst feast. Seriously. All I seem to have written are Self-Esteem Issues, Bullying, referenced Trauma, implied Alcoholism, sexually transmitted diseases, and if I had continued further, comedy spots asides, I would have also included racism (though it might be in already, not sure anymore at this point), dubious ethics, gender issues and/or transphobia, and others 'niceties'. It sorta feels like no-one has a good beginning. Uh. Perhaps it's no wonder that fic turned the way it has after all <.<
> 
> *coughs*
> 
> But nevermind. The idea here was -- and still is, if I manage to get back into writing mood, which I haven't been in months -- to worldbuild and to show how the various characters came together as a team and family of choice, cue the unhappy beginning they're all in despite the fun summary. What can I say? I love worldbuilding; lots of my stories never go further than worldbuilding!
> 
> Anyway, I wish you a good reading. Have fun!

Normally, Optimus had nothing against commercial breaks or pop ups while he was perusing through videos or accessing the Grid. While most were utter gibberish or thinly veiled attempts to brainwash you into buying products you didn’t need, there were still a few entertaining ones every now and then.

However, it was the fifth time in less than a cycle that this specific one ended up popping in his face, and it was becoming very old very fast.  


** Become Part of the Legend! Join Seibertopia Tales Online! **

Grunting, Optimus closed the window even as the famous actor Hoist launched himself into a speech over his game avatar, a Lancer, taunting people as he did. **“And you, what are you playing to?”**

“Nothing,” Optimus muttered as he shuttered his optics for a moment and forced himself to relax. It wasn’t the ad’s fault, really it wasn’t. It just… brought too many memories back, some of which were still too painful to dwell upon.

“Oy, Opti! You’re done here?” Someone called over and Optimus sighed as he lighted his optics again and turned his seat to face Dirttrail. The tan and yellow mech has his arms crossed over his chest and was tapping his foot impatiently, his whole frame rattling in anticipation.

“I am,” Optimus confirmed, rising up and stretching his limbs. He hadn’t realized how stiff they had started to become. “Sorry, the computer is all yours,” he offered as he moved to the side, letting the smaller mech access to the only functional recreation terminal of their small, cramped ship.

“Finally! Thank, mech!” Dirttrail hooted and jumped into the seat without further invitation, long digits already tipping madly to open up his chosen Grid windows – and Optimus was unsurprised to see one of them was advertising mechs with, ah, a ‘relational’ kind of business. That was Dirttrail, after all; the other mech had never cared (and probably never would) if all his shipmates knew he was spending his free time (and shanix) to call phone interfacing operators.

At first, Optimus had protested; surely, Dirttrail’s occupation was, if not illegal, then at least punishable? But neither Proton Major, the ship’s captain, nor Racket, his de facto Second, had done more than raise an optic ridge or level a flat-look at Optimus when he had tried to breach the subject and Optimus had stumbled back out of the room, not daring to put in an official complaint over his superiors’ heads. That would have made living on the ship in relative harmony impossible, and making enemies out of his team was the last thing Optimus needed; he had enough of those already.

So… Optimus turned the other way when he saw Dirttrail heading for the Rec Room and pretended he had no idea what his teammate was up to while trying not to let his cheeks overheat from the embarrassment. He always made sure to only go when Dirttrail was on duty – or at least he tried to. Today was an exception, one brought up by the fact that Cordage had managed to injure himself while bending to lift containers, forcing Extensao, their medic, to start and operate him as he could (“I told him to come and see me for that cracked back strut ages ago, but did he listen? Noooo, of course! Stupid old pile of spare parts!”) and taking two of their number down from the regular work shifts.

Optimus had pulled a double himself before taking some time off, wanting to connect to the online part of the Iacon Archives to borrow and download a copy of an historical report he had heard a lot of good things about, check out if perhaps he had received new messages (of course he hadn’t; who would write to him nowadays, he thought bitterly?) and perhaps check out some ads for lodging; he still didn’t have a permanent address on Cybertron since… well, since.

They were scheduled to return in two decacycles, and Optimus still had no idea where he would be sleeping. Probably on the ship or, bar that, in the old barracks for maintenance personnel who were in-between assignments again, he thought dispassionately. It would be nice to have a place to call his once more. In a way, Optimus had looked forward that break and that search.

Sadly, since Dirttrail had finished his own shift not even a cycle after him, all his careful plans had fallen apart. The other mech had no patience, and since Optimus had had the computer to himself for a cycle already, surely he didn’t need it for more?  
Optimus hadn’t seen the point in arguing.

Awkwardly, he shifted from foot to foot, trying to come up with something to say, anything. He needed to try and be closer to his team, he knew it. His therapist had suggested Optimus should try to open up to more people, and he was trying to follow the advice. But Dirttrail was… They had nothing in common, really, asides of both being Autobots and of both being assigned on a Space Bridge repair crew.

“I’ll… be going, then,” he finally said, hating how unsteady his voice sounded. Frag, why couldn’t he be more assertive?

Dirttrail hummed, not even letting his optics wander away from the screen. “Yeah, yeah.” He paused briefly, optics darting over his shoulders. “Say, my mech, you’re sure you don’t want me to try and hook you with that femme on Kammabi? I mean,” he added at Optimus’ stunned look, “You look like you could use some fun, and I swear, that femme, she has such great lips, knows how to use them too, especially on your…”

“I’m not interested,” Optimus responded swiftly and probably more coldly than he should have, but Dirttrail just shrugged.

“If you say so, mech. I just wanted to propose,” he turned back to the screen, cooing. “Alright, my pretties, now come to see Daddyyyyy!”

That was too much. Optimus didn’t run away, but he certainly walked very fast and made a point of closing the door behind him – not that Dirttrail seemed to notice or even appreciate; already, Optimus could hear him talk up to someone loudly through the door. He should let Cordage knows the noise isolation was getting shabby again – not that it would change much of anything, the red and blue mech sighed to himself. The Dion was a very old ship and it was full of little malfunctions that the crew kept repairing, only for them to pop up again and again a few orns later. Sometimes it amazed Optimus that the thing was still space worthy.

“Probably not for much longer,” Proton Major had conceded when Optimus had tentatively breached the subject with him last orn, as they were both making repairs on a section of the hull while the rest of the team was busy checking out the Space Bridge’s system. “We’re reaching the limit here; I know it as well as you. Give it a vorn, then we’ll probably suffer a critical malfunction. Perhaps that’ll decide the higher ups at Fortress Maximus to get us a new ship, but I wouldn’t bet on it, son,” he had said, biting down on a cy-gar with a look of distaste on his face. Optimus had (wisely?) said nothing.

It was no secret that the Autobots’ ship armada had suffered heavy losses during the Great War and that Ultra Magnus’ prioritized the attribution of new, well-warmed and well-maintained ships to the Elite Guard patrols tasked with the surveillance of the Commonwealth’s border and all the military groups beside. Space Bridge technicians, despite the important nature of their job, had to make do with ‘rusty old buckets’ like the Dion.

Proton Major seemed to be of two minds about it; he minded… but he also didn’t mind. Or at least, he minded that High Command wouldn’t let simple technicians have better, state-of-the-art ships, but he also didn’t really mind working on the Dion. “I served on the Dion since I was a ‘bot barely older than you, Optimus. I’m becoming old enough to seriously think about retirement and I can’t see myself serving on any other ship. It wouldn’t right, not at all. If my ship goes down, then I’ll end up taking my leave from the Autobots,” the old mustached mech had stated, looking straight into Optimus’ optics. “That’s an ending I can feel comfortable with. Don’t worry though; if it comes to that and your formation isn’t finished, I’m sure they’ll transfer you to another unit to finish your training. And if it is… well, given they named you a Prime, you’ll probably get your own ship to command. What you think, mechling? Excited by the idea?”

“… I don’t know, Sir,” Optimus had replied carefully. “It will be a big responsibility.” A responsibility he wasn’t sure he was ready to take, but he dared not say it aloud. Proton Major had just given him a joyless smile before lighting up his cy-gar.

“That it will be. Let’s see that you’re ready to face it up, hmm? Pass me that solder and watch how I do it, will you? I don’t know what they’re teaching you young ‘bots in that Academy, but you did a piss-poor job of welding those plates together! See, that’s how you should have done it…”

That had been a bard, but not a cruel one, and it had slide on Optimus’ plating like water. Proton Major hadn’t been and still wasn’t trying to hurt him, Optimus knew it. And really, the situation was… Well, jabs were expected. It was just so (un)funny.

Optimus was supposed to be a Prime and as such, have the highest rank on the ship; technically, he should have been the commanding officer… but he was also a complete novice when it came to Space Bridges. Sure, he had studied about them, but never before had he had the occasion to work on one and there were plenty of things related to their maintenance that didn’t pop up in the Academy classrooms. Plenty of things Optimus was slowly picking up as he worked under Proton Major, his official teacher on Maintenance before Optimus was deemed ready to take a command of his own among the technicians, thank to Ultra Magnus deciding that the red and blue mech could still serve the Autobots in some way, despite...

Slag, but how humiliating it was. Optimus’ only relief was that asides of Proton Major, nobody on the ship knew of his real rank; the old captain had chosen to keep it to himself, for which Optimus could only feel grateful. He didn’t want to think about what the rest of the crew would say if they knew. For all his efforts in trying to bond with them as a team, it just wasn’t working – not right, at least.

Proton Major was his teacher and superior officer officially, and Optimus felt himself obligated to keep him at arm-length, less someone would decide that their relationship was suspicious. The mustached mech didn’t share much of his past with Optimus either way. The Prime got along well enough with Cordage, who was almost as old as Proton Major though in poorer health (the back strut incident was only one malfunction among many; last time, the old mech had fissured a knee and before that, he had torn two cables in his shoulder), and he was respectful of medic Extensao, who was in turn kind to him, but… there was no close camaraderie here either. As for the other two members of the crew, Racket seemed to have taken a dislike of him on sight the moment they met, possibly thinking Optimus was here to steal his place as the ship’s Second and Dirttrail didn’t have much interest in hanging around what he considered a ‘dipstick’, unless he needed a fourth player for a cyber-poker game.

Adding the fact Optimus was technically an officer would have further doomed all of his (pitiful) attempts at building trust and teamwork with the crew of old mechs and misfits who saw no point in truly greeting an outsider in the fold.

Slowly, Optimus made his way to his quarters, taking careful note of all potential dysfunctions he could spot and adding them to the growing list of repairs he and the rest of the crew would need to handle in between two checks on the Space Bridges network. Three dead light bulbs, a leaking pipe of water running toward the washracks and a popped wall panel were witnessed before Optimus reached his destination; he even fixed the panel himself on the way, seeing no point in waiting for it to be done when it barely took a few cliks to fix. It even managed to take his mind off his current problems as he worked, which was a nice bonus.

After all, what was he supposed to do during the rest of his off cycle, he thought miserably as he let the door of his quarters slide back shut behind him? As far as quarters went, it was cramped – not exactly thought out for a mech of his size and more for the smaller, more energy-efficient frames of Minibots – and Optimus hadn’t put much effort into giving them a more ‘homely’ touch. A stack of datapad on a shelf atop the small desk, a cushion to ameliorate the comfort of the creaky chair (he hadn’t been able to resist – that thing was far too uncomfortable without one), a neatly folded pair of heat-regulating blankets he used whenever the ship’s environment-controlling systems had a hiccup (again) waiting at the foot of the berth, a frame containing the picture of a landscape filled with crystals on a wall, and another frame turned face down on the desk.

That was it.

Pitiful, really. Optimus had never been one to amass a lot of possessions to begin with, and he had had to part with a lot after the trial. Most of what remained, he preferred to keep in storage on Cybertron, thinking and arguing with himself it was better that way, that he didn’t need those things while his future was still so shaky, that he needed to find a new home before he transferred the rest of his stuff.

His optics wandered to the neat row of datapads. Honestly, they contained nothing he hadn’t read already, but his download had been interrupted by Dirttrail and he barely had five pages worth of the whole treaty out of several hundreds; Optimus really didn’t wish to read them only to discover he’d be interrupted in the middle of a sentence. Sighing, he reached for the pads. Well, he had brought those ones because they were his favorites; he could handle a new rereading of the Battle of Iacon. Then perhaps he’d catch on some recharge.

What else could he do anyway?


	2. Origins - Optimus. 2

“I don’t know what Racket did this time, but I wouldn’t want to be in his place for all the shanix on Cybertron,” Estensao commented as he and Optimus moved crates of new medical equipment in the Dion’s hold. Or rather, Optimus was carrying and carefully stocking the crates and Extensao checked them on the list he held, nodding to himself and looking very cheery for once.

It was rare enough for Optimus to take notice; as far as he knew, Extensao had only two modes, aggravated and stone-faced (alright, he cracked a smile every now and then, usually when watching Sumo wrestling, during which he could also grow very lively as in, shouting acclamations so loudly you could hear him from three decks above, but it was still pretty rare; the Dion received signals that weren’t Autobot-encrypted very badly, thus why one had to arm himself with patience if they wanted to watch the screen in the Rec Room).

The young Prime grunted a bit, partly because Extensao was probably expecting some kind of answer and in part because that latest crate was _heavy_ ; Cordage would have probably broken another strut trying to move it. Thankfully, the older mech was on ‘light’ duty; the last Optimus had seen him, he was filling paperwork with the docks’ authorities on behalf of Proton Major, who was locked up in his office with Racket – and had been for the better part of the latest megacycle.

That too was highly unusual, especially because Proton Major had looked infuriated when he had summoned his Second. And Racket… Racket had both looked furious and unsurprised at the same time, so whatever it was about, the other mech knew why.

“Perhaps it’ll teach him not to drink himself into a stupor in one of the docks’ bars, this time,” Extensao commented again, crossing yet another line off the list when Optimus gave him the all clear. He sounded viciously pleased; it was no secret Racket enjoyed high-grade and highly intoxicating cocktails whenever he was off duty (and sometimes on duty as well, Optimus suspected, but he had no proof). The expression on the medic’s face was anything but nice. It always surprised Optimus how a mech who always was polite and decent to him could hold such grudges. But, then again, he had no idea of what personal history laid between the Dion’s medic and its Second.

“I don’t think it’s about heavy drinking,” Optimus said carefully as he crouched down to lift another container, this one thankfully small-sized and light – and assortment of bolts, nails and filler metals, if the tag glued to the side was right. “He didn’t get off the ship since we arrived on Epsilon VI. They don’t serve anything stronger than oil here anyway,” he added as an afterthought. Epsilon VI was a fairly small station, orbiting around one of Alpha IX’s moons and manned by inhabitants of Vehicon, who had a low tolerance for stronger mixes themselves; Optimus had visited one of those bars, once, with… other mechs. There had been loud, disappointed cries by many Cadets but Kup Minor had been very pleased by the outcome himself. The old mech had always seemed to take great delight in anything that could bring his latest batch of students to tear by sheer frustration, making a point of using it to illustrate whatever he had been droning about (not Optimus’ words, those of, well, an old friend. A once-friend.)

Extensao scoffed. “As if he wouldn’t have been able to find a cube!”

“Ah… True,” Optimus conceded, though he didn’t think that was it, else Proton Major wouldn’t have looked so thunderous. The older mech took his crew’s quirks at face value and he was both used to them and tolerating them so long the crew did their duty. Racket’s drinking, while concerning, had never been a problem (at least as far as Optimus knew, even if he disapproved almost as heavily as Dirttrail’s use of the Rec Room’s computer for interfacing phone) and unless the Second provoked a critical malfunction such as blowing a reactor, Proton Major would probably let it stand as it was.

And there had been no malfunction of this amplitude on the ship for now, so…

But he didn’t think Extensao was ready to hear it. He just lowered his head and continued to transport the containers, putting them where the medic showed him to and confirming the number. Thankfully, it was a small haul; he didn’t even need to transform to bring the last ones inside. By the time their internal chronometer marked the end of the megacycle, everything was neatly sorted. They even had time to sweep the floor.

“Good, good,” Extensao nodded, humming as they walked down the corridor toward the medbay, a modest-sized box marked ‘cabling’ tucked under his arm. “Thank for the help, Optimus.”

“It was nothing,” the Prime replied quietly, wondering wherever he ought to go to the bridge and settle at a communication console alongside Dirttrail or go and see if Cordage needed help filling the paperwork – something dull and unpleasant but that Optimus had no complaint doing himself. Before he could decide, however, his comm. unit buzzed, making him pause mid-step as Extensao looked curiously at him.

“Optimus?” the medic inquired, though he relaxed immediately when a simple gesture let him know what was happening. “Bossbot calling?” he guessed as Optimus nodded warily.

“It is,” he confirmed. Which he really didn’t understand; normally, Proton Major should have had no reason to call him at all, since Optimus had his assigned duties for the solar cycle and there had been no new problem reported since they had docked at Epsilon VI. True, the mustached mech could decide to change their schedule whenever he pleased… but when he did so, he told them directly over the comm., he didn’t ask them to join him in his office!

Optimus’ Spark fluttered nervously; what could have he done for Proton Major to make him report, right after getting in what was probably an argument with his Second? Still, he squared his shoulders, told his goodbyes to Extensao and headed for the nearest lift.

The Dion was a lot smaller than the standard Cybertronian aircrafts produced since the Great War; it lacked a secondary bridge, there were only five liquid Energon storage tanks instead of the standard ten seen on most war and post-war ships and the Energon processing core was half the size of the newer, more recent models. Not to mention things like the generally cramped living space, or the shuttle bay that could only hold one shuttle at any time. Thankfully, there was an external port allowing boarding on the side of the ship. That said, it was a very outdated model who wouldn’t quite fit with the newest systems.

Optimus winced as the lights of the lift flickered but thankfully, it didn’t stop. The last thing he needed was to be stuck in the elevator, again.

Proton Major’s office was the only true ‘room’ on that deck. Originally, it had been a big storage closet which had been converted for day to day usage because, as Proton Major had put it, ‘an officer ought to have an office on their own ship, as per the protocol’. Said office saw little use altogether because the old mech had few reasons to ever call someone up there and as far as Optimus knew, nobody ever willingly went up there to discuss potential problems with their superior Officer, unlike on an Elite Guard ship, where such meetings were common occurrences. Optimus would have known; he had served on one as part of the internship program of the Academy for three orbital cycles.

That said, the Officers’ offices on recent ships must have had a better isolation, because Optimus couldn’t remember passing by one and hearing shouts, like he currently did as he stood stiffly in front of the door, hesitating to enter. He had expected Racket to have been gone by the time he got there but apparently, it wasn’t the case.

Cautiously, he knocked on the door, wondering what it was all about. The shouting died down immediately. “Sir? Optimus reporting for duty,” he said as calmly as he could, waiting for a confirmation he could enter.

The confirmation turned out to be Racket making the door slide asides and running out, making Optimus jump to the side to avoid getting barreled into. The small ‘bot had a crossed expression on his face. No, scratch crossed, he was seething, Optimus realized as he watched him go, swearing under his breath. Proton Major emerged from the office right behind him, optics blazing.

“I’m serious, Racket! Those repairs will be paid with YOUR salary! And it’s going down in record! Try to run and I’m throwing you to the Enforcers, got it?!”

“Frag you!” the other mech screeched, hitting the buttons of the lift and making it go down… only for it to give a screeching sound in turn somewhere below, which made Optimus wince.

“Uh oh; it’s out of order again. Optimus to…” he started to say, opening a comm. channel to the bridge, only for Proton Major to put a hand on his arm, startling him.

“Let him in there a moment, Optimus. He needs to cool down and better he does it in an enclosed space.” The mustached mech was heavily frowning and looking at the lift area with open distaste.

“Sir? Is everything alright?” Optimus asked cautiously after a moment of silence. Proton Major just sighed.

“No, son, it isn’t. Come inside and take a seat, we need to have a chat.”

Well, if it wasn’t ominous, Optimus thought as he obeyed. Proton Major was munching aggressively on a cy-gar as he settled down across Optimus on the other side of the desk. The lights were lows, but it wasn’t unusual in this part of the ship. Proton Major didn’t seem in a hurry to start the conversation, so Optimus let his optics wander around. For its small size, the office was more personable than the Prime’s own quarters. The desk was old, the chairs were creaky and mismatched, there was no window, the computer on the edge had a small crack toward the bottom of its screen. But Proton Major had put in two potted crystals that gave sweet little silver reflects even in the dim light, there was an old poster of a younger Ultra Magnus encouraging you to join the Autobot on the wall right behind Proton Major, surrounded by small, individual frames showing old members of the crew and a few naïve drawing had been stamped on another wall – Optimus wouldn’t even guess at who had done them to begin with, but they clearly showed an inexperienced hand. That, or whoever had made them was not artistically talented at all.

Still, it was nice. Far nicer than Optimus’ quarters, and if it wasn’t painful and ironic, he didn’t know what it was.

“Tell me, Optimus, what would you say about becoming my Second in Command?” Proton Major suddenly asked out of the blue and Optimus blinked in incomprehension for a klik before the words settled in and his optics widened from the shock.

“M… me, Sir?” he stuttered. That… that made no sense, he thought frantically. Proton Major couldn’t… well, yes, he could, technically, he was the ship’s captain and he was free to choose his Second in Command among the crew provided they were all the same rank. If they weren’t, then there were procedures to follow and…

“… Is it because I’m supposed to be a Prime?” he found himself asking, staring at his hands which he had neatly folded in his laps.

“You ARE a Prime,” the old mustached mech replied sharply before he sighed. “Damnit, mechling. Look at me, would you?” His four digits-hand lifted Optimus’ chin as he reached over the desk. “Ultra Magnus wrote down your rank as Prime, so you are a Prime, even if you don’t have a command presently – and even if it isn’t widespread knowledge yet. But no, I’m not asking you to be my Second because you’re a Prime; I’m asking you because Racket fragged up and is getting demoted and I need someone to take the position, even if it’s mostly for show.”

Well, that last part was true, given the small size of the ship and how few times they made port on their tours, Proton Major seldom left the ship, so it wasn’t as if his Second had much to do and…

“Racket is getting demoted?!” Optimus blurted out as his CPU caught on. “But why? I thought he was doing a good job…” Or at least it had always seemed so to Optimus, even if he and Racket had never seen optic to optic. Sure, he indulged himself into more drinks than what was reasonable and responsible but those details asides, Racket was honestly the most professional member of the Dion.

Proton Major snorted. “Good job, my aft. A mech who does a good job doesn’t end up demolishing one of the ship’s Shield Generator with kicks because he flew into a rage over getting banned from a stupid game.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Optimus’ jaw dropped. “How in the Pit did he do that?!” Shield Generators were incredibly hard to break; they were reinforced structures, build up to support multiple shocks and explosions should they need to – and in a fight, they always needed to. Having a ‘bot break one with kicks was just… There was no word for it. That shouldn’t have been possible.

“Well, either he was in a big rage, or dear Racket didn’t hold up on his augmented strength,” Proton Major grunted. “He’s down on record as being able to bench-press a mech thrice his size, for information. Not someone you want to get in a fist fight with.”

“Noted, Sir,” Optimus replied with a wince. Yes, he definitely would stay clear of Racket in a bad mood.

“Good, good.” Proton Major lighted the cy-gar. Optimus did his best not to wrinkle his olfactive sensor; despite having gotten used to the smell while he trained under Kup Minor, he had never cared for it “Anyway, you see the problem, don’t you? We don’t have a brig, or that’s where I’d send him right away. For now, I can only report the incident, officially demote him from his functions as ship’s Officer and fill up the paperwork indicating HE will be the one to reimburse the cost of the generator he destroyed to the Elite Guard, the Ministry of Sciences and the Transport Guild.”

“I can understand the Elite Guard and the Ministry of Sciences, but why the Transport Guild?” Optimus asked, surprised. The ship belonged to the Elite Guard and the Ministry of Sciences furnished a lot of the equipment on board. The Transport Guild…

“Space Bridge technicians are mostly civilian workers, even if we work closely with the Guard,” Proton Major shrugged. “Plus, our job primarily benefits the Transport Guild, who is the one charged with most of the maintenance costs for the network. They give a substantial share of their profits for the maintenance of our ships – not that you’d guess it when you see the sorry state of the Dion,” he added with self-depreciation.

It was hard to contradict the Major, Optimus thought; the Dion was really derelict.

“… It’s going to cost him a lot, isn’t it?” he finally said after a moment, trying to calculate how much a Shield Generator was worth and coming up empty.

“More than there are shanix currently on his bank account,” Proton Major replied flatly. “As it is, even if he sells all his possessions, I’m not sure he’ll be able to reimburse all the costs. He’ll probably end up spending time in the Stockades unless he pulls a miracle. Frag, mechling, you’re alright?” the old mech asked suddenly.

Optimus stared at him blankly for a moment before realizing he had started to slide from his seat. Cheeks burning with heat, he straightened and sat back. “I’m sorry, Sir. It’s just… surprised me.” And brought back some very unpleasant memories too; two stellar cycles ago, it was him who had been in the same situation, although without the risk of ending in the Stockades. Proton Major must have known, because he gave him a knowing look. Of course Proton Major knew, Optimus chided himself; he was forced to take a recently named Prime on his ship and to form him to handle Maintenance, when said Prime should and would eventually outrank him.

“… are we returning on Cybertron earlier than planned, Sir?” Because the situation certainly warranted it; with one less working Shield Generator, it seriously weakened the integrity of the ship and made it vulnerable to attacks. True, there were no reasons they should encounter troubles needing the full use of all generators onboard, but it was still a major malfunction they couldn’t ignore like they did most of the Dion’s smaller issues.

Proton Major inhaled deeply, savoring his cy-gar for moment before answering. “Yes and no. We will be progressing to the next Bridges on our tour as normally planned. There are no other teams able to take up our share in this area. One of those days, Ultra Magnus should be asked to increase our budget and hire more technicians,” he added with a snort. “Anyway, we’ll be progressing up to Athenia, as per instructions. But we will not be taking the scenic road back; we’ll take the Bridge right back to Cybertron. Racket will have some explanations to give to the authorities for his outburst and we’ll get to enjoy our break a little earlier than planned. That’ll move up your next appointment with Rung but I trust you’ll be making the necessary arrangements, hum?”

The heat crawled back to Optimus’ cheeks. That wasn’t an order, but it was as good as one – and he was certain the Major would check if Optimus had done it. Besides, he couldn’t miss an appointment, else he would end up in even deeper troubles than Racket. “… Yes, Sir,” he answered quietly.

“Good. Dismissed, Optimus. Oh, and if Racket didn’t do it himself, give a call to Cordage and Dirttrail to get that lift working back up. By now, he must have cooled down enough.”

Optimus rose up slowly. Cooled down. Right. As he was reaching the door, however, Proton Major coughed. “Oh, I was almost forgetting, Optimus. Would you be interested in that thing?” The Prime turned as the old mustached mech dropped something on the desk. A familiar-looking something. Optimus’ Spark missed a beat.

On first glance, it was a simple cube. A minuscule cube that fit easily in the palm of Proton Major’s hand and would be dwarfed in Optimus’ own. It looked perfectly innocuous and unremarkable but Optimus knew that hidden in the cube itself was a complex transformation mechanism hiding ports and cables. Those ports and cables could be used to link up the cube to any type of computer… or could be linked up on a mech’s systems themselves.

A game data-holder cube.

“Sir?” he asked carefully.

“Racket’s,” Proton Major explained. “He threw it out, claiming it was useless now. Well, useless to him at any rate. Something about a key and an account frozen? I don’t know how those things work.”

But Optimus knew, him. “… Data-holder cubes act like an entry point in a game, Sir,” he explained carefully. “You first link them up to a computer to install the data and create your account, then you link the cube with your own systems to get a personal activation key. Once it’s done, you can enter the game by, uh, basically by downloading your conscience through the cube and into the game itself.”

“Sounds unnecessarily complicated,” Proton Major commented. “Back in my day, we had controllers and simple system hook-ups. None of those ‘live the adventure in your own head’ thing, and we were perfectly happy with it. Anyway, can you still use that thing?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Optimus Prime,” the Dion’s captain looked up at him seriously. “I’ve spent a lot of time observing you. You’re a good mech, Optimus, but it’s clear you need to get your mind off work and off, well, everything. No, no, don’t protest. Mechs who are perfectly right in their head don’t get appointment with the Head Shrink,” he pointed out casually, making Optimus shrinks on himself. “I’m not a big fan of those games things myself, but I know you need a hobby – and I trust you not to destroy something out of sheer frustration if things don’t go your way inside that thing. Now, I want you to have that thing before Racket decides to destroy it out of rage too. I want you to use it to get yourself some fun – provided it’s still working. It’s still working, right?”

“… it should be, Sir,” Optimus said carefully, trying not to think too hard on what his superior had just said. “I… if it’s the game I think, then I have an account already and my activation and access key is still valid.”

“Then why aren’t you using it in your downtime?” the old mech asked, curious.

“You, ah, you need the cube itself to be able to play, since it transforms into the game system link-up,” Optimus explained. “And mine was… lost a while ago.” Sold to pay his lawyer’s fees, in fact, but it wasn’t something Optimus wanted to discuss about if he could help it. “… I should give it back to Racket. It belongs to him,” he said after a moment.

Proton Major gave him a look. “You do that and that thing will end up crushed under his pedes or in a trash compactor. Better you keep it. And if you feel so many scruples, you can always lay him some money and say you’re buying it. Primus knows he’ll need all the shanix he can soon,” he added more darkly.

“…Yes, Sir,” Optimus replied, eyeing the data-holder cube warily. It didn’t please him the slightest, but he couldn’t exactly refuse the Major; the old mech would try and turn it into an order if he did, Optimus was certain of it. He coughed. “If I may ask, Sir… did Racket told you why his account and key were frozen?”

“Oh, he apparently tried to buy whatever currency you use in that game with real-life shanix and the game masters apparently didn’t like it. Got him banned from the system and his avatar frozen or destroyed, I’m not sure what,” the old mech said with a gesture of dismissal.

“Ah. Right,” Optimus winced. Game Masters never, ever kidded around with pirate credits and they tended to crack down on the culprits with all their might. Racket may have been pissed, but in the end if he had been stupid enough to break the game charter, well, he only had himself to blame. “Will that be all, Sir?”

“Once you take that stupid cube, yes it’ll be, mechling. And remember what I said; use it and try to have some fun.”

Gingerly, Optimus reached for the data-holder cube and under the Major’s intense gaze, slipped it into subspace. He saluted and moved to leave, hoping the old mech wouldn’t call him back again.

Thankfully, he didn’t. Optimus’ comm. unit crackled as he exchanged transmissions with the rest of the crew to try and deliver Racket from the stuck lift. Still, even as he did his share, even as he resumed his duties, he couldn’t help but think about the small cube in his subspace pocket.

It felt like it was burning him.


	3. Origins. Optimus 3

The cube rested on Optimus’ desk and he was eyeing it as he would have eyed a coiled Razor-Viper. Oh, it wasn’t going to suddenly lunge and bite him, slicing his plating like nothing, nor was it a bomb that was going to blow in his face, but that didn’t change the fact Optimus wasn’t at ease with the small data-holder.

It was ridiculous, he kept saying to himself. It was only a game.

But it was also THAT game.

Even if he hadn’t been able to see the series of little glyphs forming the title, delicately etched into one of the faces, he would have recognized the form and the color. The company which produced them always employed a new, unique design for each of their game.

‘Seiberutopia Tales Online’, the glyphs proudly proclaimed. ‘The Greatest Adventure of All Times’.

And Optimus honestly didn’t know what to feel about. Thus why he was still sitting on his berth, hugging himself as he stared at the deceptively innocent device, not daring to actually use it and connect. It would be so simple, though. So, so simple. But Optimus felt frozen, unable to move or even take a decision.

S.T.O. was… He sighed. Oh, well, out with it: S.T.O. was a good game, one of the best Optimus had ever played. Not that he had ever been an avid gamer, but every now and then, he had indulged himself – especially with friends. Especially with Sentinel… and Elita One. All of them together, acting as a team, doing Quests and participating in Events, battling monsters and beating Dungeons, fighting Decepticon players and joking about all easy they’d be able to do it again in the real world…

All those dreams and easy talks, crushed. Elita was dead, Sentinel wouldn’t have anything to do with him anymore and Optimus… Optimus hated himself.

But it wasn’t the self-hatred that held him from just go ahead and go back to the game. At least, he pretended it wasn’t. There were other reasons as well – such as not having felt like playing ever since the whole Archa Seven mess had started. The loss of Elita, the trial, the lengthy talks with his lawyers, with the judges, the disappointed look on Ultra Magnus’ face, and the seething hatred in Sentinel’s optics when once before there had been so much warmth, his eviction from the Academy when he had been on the fast track to become Valedictorian of their promotion… 

It had been emotionally and physically exhausting. When the dust had cleared, Optimus had been left standing alone in the ruined shards of his life. He still didn’t understand why the Magnus had given him the rank of Prime despite everything. Why he was still giving him a chance to work for the Autobots, one more cogs in the great machine. It felt almost cruel despite it being a mercy.

The rank wasn’t granting Optimus any happiness. He had lost too much already. All the souvenirs and possessions he had gathered over the years, anything with monetary values, he had been forced to sell to pay the astronomically high fees demanded by his lawyers as well as reimburse the Academy for the funds they had advanced for his incomplete education.

His copy of Seiberutopia Tales Online had been among them.

Oh, his account still existed, since Optimus had never deleted it from the servers, and technically his access key still existed as well. He just missed a link-up to go back online.  
The question was, did he truly wish to?

On one hand, Optimus had plenty of good memories associated with that game and he had been good at it; it would provide him with a good escape from the misery he was dealing with on a daily basis. But on the other hand, many of those memories had turned bittersweet, and there were high chances he would encounter people from his past, people who hadn’t forgiven him for Elita’s demise.

_Sentinel…_

And that wasn’t even mentioning how pissed Racket still was about the whole ordeal. Life on the Dion had because nigh unbearable of late since the former Second had been demoted. Now he indulged in drinks even on duty, provoking Extensao’s hire, which resulted in screaming matches in the middle of the bridge. Racket had also thrashed his own quarters and was still being so furious with everything that Proton Major had finally locked him up in his quarters. That could have been the end of it, but Dirttrail wasn’t happy with the fact Optimus had inherited the Second’s position and was being snippy. Cordage pretended not to care but given the way he kept frowning, he didn’t understand Proton Major’s choice either. Extensao wasn’t giving him any grief, but that was probably because he was more busy gloating about Racket’s fall from grace.

Cybertron wasn’t close enough yet, Optimus decided.

So yes, it was tempting to just link up and play for a bit, fall back on old reflexes, let himself forget the real world for a megacycle or two, go back to exploring new areas and collect weapons and armors and items. The map was so large he could always avoid unpleasant encounters, should he make his mind to.

Tentatively, he reached for the cube, lifting it in his palm, servos reflexively pushing on the hidden, discreet transformation seams, letting a tiny cable unroll. With slightly trembling finger, he connected it to a matching port in his wrist, staying utterly still as the cube scanned his frame and operational systems before it engaged the appropriate transformation sequence.

That’s what why Seiberutopia Tales Online was so popular, Optimus thought dimly as the scan ended and the cube started shifting, changing into what could generously be described as a large earphone from which several tiny cables were hanging. Most games were only thought for certain types of frames. S.T.O. was the first one featuring a personalized access for every single type of frame out there; depending on your size, your processors speed, your energy levels, your Spark frequency, it could change into a earphone, a headphone, a complicated visor,… And once it had selected the appropriate, you just needed to plug it in your head ports, linking up your CPU and the game copy.

Simple and elegant and why MMORPG had gotten so popular on Cybertron, Optimus thought as he connected the cables, the gestures familiar and weirdly soothing.

Optimus lied down on the berth as his vision started to flicker, the download bar filling his vision as he tried to find a comfortable position to rest in while connected to the game. His Spark fluttered as it finally reached 100% and his whole vision dissolved into pixels before briefly darkening. He clamped down on his reflex to stiffen and panic; the connection always felt weird and frightening the first couple of times, but he was a long-time player by now – even if he hadn’t played in forever.

::Welcome to Seiberutopia Tales Onlines!:: the cheery voice of the AI greeted him and Optimus smiled faintly. It was good to know that despite the frequent upgrade, they hadn’t modified this part. ::Please, confirm your avatar before entering the game!::  
Pixels cleared and assembled themselves into a doorway in front of which a silhouette was waiting. Optimus’ Spark sunk.

Somehow, he had forgotten how his avatar had looked.

It was… it was Optimus himself. An Optimus stylized, idealized, but it still had his face, scanned and imported in the game as per custom when one connected. Cybertronian MMO games, unlike those developed by organics, had never been exceptionally creative when it came to characters’ customization. There were no difference races to incarnate, no extravagant transformation that would allow, say, a coupe from becoming a warframe. You could alterate a few parameters, such as your height and weight and change a few cosmetic details such as the color of your optics, but what you were in the real life was reflected into your game avatar.

Primus, he had forgotten those flames patterns, red shining on blue, crawling from his pedes to his knees and from his hands to his elbows. He had forgotten that stylized helmet, that impassive facemask, and even the yellow optics he had chosen to be more ‘striking’ with his color scheme. He reached out uncertainly, digits stopping a few centimeters away from his avatar’s face. He looked… dashing. Sure of himself. A true warrior. Someone who wasn’t Optimus Prime, simple Maintenance worker who had no idea what to do with himself or with his life and who felt as if he was hanging above a deep chasm, ready to fall down at the slightest mistake.

He hadn’t been really trying to connect to the avatar. But even if he wasn’t touching it yet, the game AI had recognized the move, interpreting it as an attempt to slide into the avatar’s form and pass the doorway.

::Are you ready to connect and be a hero, Knight Optronix?:: the cheery voice asked.

Optimus withdrew his hand, feeling like it had been stung. Oh Primus above… Why was he even here?

‘Be a hero, Knight Optronix?’ ‘Be a hero?’ ‘A hero?’

_”Clearly, being a hero isn’t part of your programming.”_

Swiftly, Optimus disconnected, clawing at the side of his head to tear off the cables, not caring about the pain as jacks were taken out too brutally and before they had been fully inactive. He was feeling sick, suddenly.

He was only able to lift himself off the berth and grab for a recycling bin before his tank finally lost the battle against his sudden fit of nausea and he retched half of what he had consumed earlier. Kneeling on the ground, the bin pinned to his chest and wiping away the half-processed Energon still staining his lips with his free hand, he let a keen escape his vocalizer.

No, he couldn’t go back to the game. He couldn’t be Optronix again, he couldn’t play at being the valiant Knight whose dearest dream and aim was to become a Paladin, not now, and perhaps never again.  
Perhaps it would be for the best if he just dropped that cube in a drawer and forgot about its existence.

And that’s what he did, until they finally reached Cybertron again.


	4. Origins. Optimus 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Optimus sits in Rung's office...

“And how are you feeling today, Optimus?” Rung asked, adjusting his glasses. Lying on the reclining sofa tucked in a corner of the therapist’s office, fingers intertwined and hands resting over his chest, Optimus stared at the ceiling and tried not to immediately and reflexively answer: “I’m fine.”

Rung would never have believed him and Optimus didn’t think he could have sounded convincing anyway.

Instead, he stared hard above him as to not cross gazes with the smaller mech sitting on a chair by the sofa, stylus and datapad in hand, ready to note down anything of interest his patient would be willing to share with him.

The silence stretched for a long time before Optimus finally gave up. “I don’t know how I feel,” he sighed. There, he was being honest; surely it would please Rung?

“I am sorry,” the small orange mech said sincerely. “Did something happen since our latest session to drag your mood down? You had sounded more cheerful when we parted last orn.”

Optimus hummed. “I suppose I was,” he allowed; when he had left Rung last time, Optimus had learned he’d be getting a slight pay raise. It hadn’t been a big one, but it had been very welcome.

“And you’re not anymore? Did something bad happen?” the therapist inquired.

“No, nothing bad,” Optimus replied quietly before pausing. That wasn’t quite true, was it? And Rung had made him promise to never lie to him; as the smaller mech put it, ‘I can’t help you if you’re not ready to tell me the truth. If anything, I could do you more harm and if I did, I’d never be able to forgive myself’. Now, the other mech wasn’t what Optimus would call a friend, but he had never doubted Rung’s good intentions nor his will to help.

Granted, even if he tried to lie, Rung would probably know immediately. Optimus had no proof, of course, but he strongly suspected Proton Major was in contact with Rung – or that the therapist received reports on Optimus’ activities aboard the Dion from Autobots Command. How else would the small orange be able to systematically orientate the conversation on the things that bothered Optimus if he wasn’t?

They had talked at length about the crew and their quirks, about what Optimus found hard to swallow and what he was willing to turn a blind optic to and why, they had talked about Optimus’ troubled recharge pattern in the beginning, they had talked about Optimus’ difficulties in learning some of the Maintenance’s work while he easily picked other parts and why it distressed him or instead eased his mind. They had talked about Optimus’ plans for his leave on Cybertron and what the last digital books he had read or the latest movie he had watched.

They had even talked about Optimus’ conflicted feelings about his former friends in the Academy. They had barely brushed the subject of Archa Seven, though, and everything it entailed. It had made no sense to Optimus at first; if Command had wanted him to go and see Rung, it was because of that damned planet, wasn’t it? Surely, the therapist should have dug into Optimus’ memories of the events already and not bother to make small talks?

It wasn’t Rung’s way, however. Optimus had slowly realized that the other mech was first trying to install a climate of mutual trust before they dug into the more serious issues Optimus was facing. Words had started to come more easily once the Prime had started to understand that.

But there were things he wasn’t yet ready to talk about in depth. Rung respected it, thankfully, for which Optimus was always grateful. So no, he couldn’t and wouldn’t lie to Rung.

“… I was named Second of the _Dion_ ,” he said after a moment of reflection, wondering how to give form to what was bothering him.

“Were you? That sounds like wonderful news, Optimus.” He sounded so sincere, too, that Optimus felt a little smile tug at his lips. For any outsider to the situation, it probably sounded so too. The smile fell when Rung pursued. “Given how hard you’ve been working, I’m not surprised to learn your efforts were recompensed.”

“Ah. That’s not really how I would have presented things,” Optimus murmured, feeling his shoulders sag.

Rung tugged at his glasses. “How so?”

Where to start explaining? How should he speak about the smirks, the angry glares thrown his way when they thought he wasn’t looking? The ironical tone they used when answering ‘Yes, Sir!’ which was new as well, because before it had always been ‘Oy, newbie!’ or ‘Optimus!’? Racket’s temper tantrums that had kept rattling the door of his room until the Autotroopers came to personally escort him out of the ship and to a Station to get testimony and start the inquiry into the willful destruction of one of the _Dion_ ’s Shield Generators? Dirttrail now making extra loud noises when he was using the computer in the Rec Room and Optimus was around, knowing it was making him uncomfortable, and Optimus’ unwillingness to order him to stop because he knew Dirttrail was just waiting for it, to try and spark an argument? Cordage who always sounded disappointed, even when he was respectful, and who seemed to be trying to avoid him in the last solar cycles before their return to Cybertron?

Only Extensao and Proton Major weren’t giving him any kind of grief, and that was only because Extensao didn’t feel threatened due to his position as ship medical officer and Proton Major seemed to sincerely believe Optimus could do the job.

“And you don’t think you can?” Rung asked softly after listening attentively to Optimus’ tale. It had been slow to come out, there had been sputters and Optimus had probably repeated himself several times by accident, but it had come out eventually as Rung gently coaxed the words out of him. He hadn’t said much, just encouraged him, making him pause when he saw or sensed Optimus wasn’t at ease or potentially upset, asked small, silly things instead (“Well, of course I like oil, doctor, why do you ask? No, I don’t really have a favorite brand. Well, okay, perhaps I’ll take a Flat Tire above the other, but that’s because it’s easier to find outside of Cybertron. No, they don’t always have McGuirkess or Budweiski in the bars I saw on the outposts. I guess they don’t have a licensing contract? My crewmates? Oh, Extensao professes to only enjoy Panther Pilsner, and Cordage prefers old brands I never heard of before… Cordage? Ah. Well, things have been… different with him, lately.)

It didn’t feel like a hassle, talking with Rung, Optimus mused as he tried to formulate an answer to the therapist’s latest question.

“I… know I have the training,” he finally said, because that much was true. He had spent stellar cycles in the Academy, geared toward the moment he’d take a command. That this hypothetical command was supposed to be of a team of Elite Guard warriors or scouts or even a science division if he had decided to ask for specialization in that field and not a ragtag team of old, spiteful Maintenance workers on a derelict ship went unsaid. However, the truth of the matter was, Optimus knew how to take charge – and he was _technically_ a Prime, even if Rung had often pointed out there was nothing technical about his nomination; if the Magnus said you were a Prime, then you were a Prime, and Optimus was definitely touching a Prime’s wages, not that he used them much.

“But?” Rung asked in a gentle voice, his optics bright behind his thick glasses.

“… But I’m not sure I can make it stick,” Optimus confessed. “I know it’s stupid,” he added after a moment. “There is no reason I shouldn’t be able to. I did it before.” Mostly during exercises pitting teams against teams in Autoboot Camp and the Academy, of course, but that counted, right? However, when things are really started to count, when there had been actual lives on the line… “… I don’t want to lose one of them,” he murmured.

Rung hummed thoughtfully. “Ah. But why would you?”

Optimus gave him a look. “They don’t listen to me, Rung. How can I hope to keep them safe if they’re not ready to follow my orders? And what if I take the wrong decision? What if I put them in danger myself and they end up deactivated because of me?”

“Do you think it can happen?” the therapist inquired neutrally, making Optimus laugh bitterly.

“Why not? That’s what happened to Elita One, isn’t it?”

“Ah. But were you in charge during those events, Optimus?” Rung pried softly.

“I… I couldn’t save her. If I had been a true Autobot, a true… “ he choked. “I’m not a hero. If I truly was… I could have saved her. She was my friend. She shouldn’t have died,” Optimus mumbled, turning his head away.

As he did so, he missed Rung shaking his head, looking desolate. Well, that wasn’t today they were going to do the big breakthrough the therapist had been hoping for. One day, Optimus would realize his guilt was misplaced and that he shouldn’t blame himself so much. One day. However, Rung could only patiently guide him toward that conclusion.

Thankfully, Optimus was an ‘easy’ patient to treat. Sentinel Major, soon to be Sentinel Prime, was another matter entirely; the mech couldn’t let go of his guilt either but instead of turning it inward into self-loathing, he had turned it outward into blaming everyone but himself and his former best friend in particular. That situation was helping neither of them. Rung had hoped that perhaps they could do a group session, bring them together in his office, have them talk it out, but he had abandoned the idea after the first couple of sessions. Until they made some real progresses on their own, bringing them in contact prematurely would only result in one or both getting hurt.

Rung sometimes wished Ultra Magnus hadn’t saddled him with the responsibility to ‘fix’ what he had referred as ‘two of the most brilliant Cadets to have ever gone through the Academy’ but the more he got to know them, the more he understood why their estimated leader had tasked him with the job.

He also wanted to shout at the Magnus that you couldn’t ‘fix’ people on a schedule, damnit, and do not let Sentinel get to Prime now no matter how urgently you need to promote someone to the rank, the mech isn’t ready and it’s not going to help his fragging healing process! And while he was at it, the diminutive mech really wanted to strangle the Magnus as well for putting through Optimus’ head the idea he was no hero material! Ah! As if coding had anything to do with it! No wonder the mech had so much internalized self-doubt!

Oh, well. He coughed and schooled his features into an appropriate, understanding look. “Nobot ever deserve to. But it was an accident, Optimus. You know it.”

“Accidents tend to repeat,” the red and blue mech replied laconically. His frame had grown tense, his armor clamping down harder on his protoform and Rung decided that perhaps it wasn’t the best time to pursue that line of thought for now. Glancing down at his pad on which, bellow his notes, he had opened a small window with Proton Major’s latest report, he tried to find something lighter to discuss.

“Sometimes they do, but most of the time they don’t,” Rung commented quietly before coughing. “But never mind. Did you try to pick up a hobby since the last time we spoke?”

Now that had Optimus sit up and rub the back of his head nervously and Rung mentally tallied the answer as ‘no’, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Rung always tried to push his patients into picking up an activity to fill their time and take their mind off their problems. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but nobot had ever complained over at least trying. He had felt very proud of himself when Sentinel Major had walked into his office to tell him he had started working on Crystal-Bonzaï care – even if it had only lasted a couple orns before he dropped them.

“I, uh, I read a few more new books?” Optimus offered, making Rung raise an optical ridge.

“That’s not exactly the kind of hobby I had in mind,” he commented, though he kept his voice amiable. Reading was good. Optimus enjoyed reading and the last thing Rung wanted was to make him withdrew from something that brought him much needed joy. Simply, Optimus had no one to share his readings with, no one with whom to comment a text, no one to give him a recommendation for his next digital book, no one to gush with over the latest adventure or romance novel to hit the stores or laugh at the bad style of the writer. If he had that, Rung wouldn’t have minded at all. But the Dion’s crew was not the literate kind and Optimus was just too wary to confide in anyone.

Even now, the gentle not-quite-a-rebute had made him flinch and shrink back on himself. “… I didn’t really search. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s perfectly understandable,” Rung provided. “Far away from Cybertron, occasions are rare to try and explore different activities. I had just hoped you might have explored different options while you were away. I have heard of a very renowned drawing class for beginner in downtown Iacon,” he suggested, lifting a finger. “Oh, and the Polihex Charity Funds left me with some pamphlets for potential new members. This year, they’re planning to knit dolls for Sparklings and Younglings living in rundown Youth Sectors across Cybertron. Perhaps you’d like to give it a look?” he smiled. “Or you could try to adhere to one of the modeling clubs? The one on Iacon’s 5th avenue is organizing an exposition of their ship models next decacycle.” And some of his owns were included, not that he was planning to share the information.

Optimus bite his lip. While they all sounded like good activities, they didn’t ring a bell with him. He wanted to politely refuse, but unless he could tell Rung he had something else planned…

Wait.

“… I have been thinking about picking video games again,” the red and blue mech said aloud. It was a slight exaggeration of the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. He HAD given it thought; he just hadn’t followed on it.

Rung clapped his hands. “Oh my, but it’s wonderful. Any specific game? Platforms? FPS? They’re getting increasingly popular those solar cycles.”

“MMORPG,” Optimus replied. “… I have an account on Seiberutopia Tales Online,” he confessed after a moment of hesitation.

“Do you? How wonderful!” Rung beamed, which earned him a confused and vaguely alarmed look from the Prime, making him chuckle and play with the branches of his glasses. “Oh, sorry. I just happen to have played the game as well,” he confessed. “Mostly with the free test version at first, and I don’t have much time to play anymore those days, but I still log in on my account from time to time. Just between us, I sometimes think hardly anyone on Cybertron never tried it out,” he added with a wink which was sadly hidden behind his thick glasses.

“Uh, yeah, I suppose,” Optimus sputtered. He would have never pinned Rung as a S.T.O. player. He tried to imagine the diminutive therapist in the game, waving around a sword as big as him and he had to muffle an involuntary giggle behind a cough. No, no, that wasn’t possible. Rung was probably some ranged fighter class or a magician; that’d fit better with his body-type. But then again, Optimus had known a Youngling half his size who was just deadly with a mace…

“Do you mind telling me what you play as?” Rung asked earnestly, his enthusiasm dimming a bit at Optimus’ wince.

“… I played a Knight.”

“Aaah,” Rung nodded. “You’re lucky to have found the Banner of Faith; I’ve heard it’s becoming rarer and rarer and that many mechs are staying locked up in the rank of Warrior.”

Optimus swallowed. If only the Banner of Faith had been the only thing he had found… “I guess I was,” he answered cautiously. It had taken him near an orn of constant researches before he located the NPC that would hand him the item. How Sentinel had hooted in delight when he had shared the info, running across half the map to find him so he could seize his change to become a Knight too…

“Optimus? You’re feeling alright?” Rung’s voice sounded a bit distant and Optimus shook his helm to clear his thought, offering the therapist a shaky smile.

“I’m sorry Rung; I’m afraid I’m a bit tired.”

“Understandable,” the orange mech nodded, full of solicitude. “You aren’t used to Cybertron’s standard solar cycle anymore, are you? The three decacycles of leave will do you some good. Are you going to use them to catch back up on the game?”

“I… I don’t know,” Optimus confessed. “That game… It was great. But I don’t know if I can go back to play Knight again.” Go back and play a hero in a game, when he couldn’t be one in real life. Go back and continue to go forward with a character he had created with his friends, to be with them even in their down time, when those friends were no longer here or hated his metal guts.

“Oh.” Rung tilted his head. “Well, perhaps you could start over again?”

Optimus had a pale smile. He had thought about it too, but… “After so long raising that character’s levels and stats to what they currently are, I’m not sure I want to erase it from the servers either.” Not to mention, he didn’t think he was emotionally ready to erase Optronix the Knight either. It was Elita who had suggested the name, Sentinel who had found those flame-patterns and gotten him that cape. He had so many things stored in his in-game bank inherited from their adventures together. To erase Optronix would be like canceling all they had done together. It would be like turning a page he didn’t think he wanted turned. Not yet.

“What about creating a second Avatar?” Rung suggested, startling Optimus. “It is possible now, after all.”

“It is?” Optimus asked faintly. “Since when?”

“Less than half a stellar cycle. They gave the game a massive overhaul and upgraded the servers when they created a new extension and added the possibility to create a second Avatar while they were at it,” Rung mentioned casually. “Granted, it’s a paying service, one that requires a fair amount of shanix, but the price isn’t unreasonable either when you think about how much space they need to hold the datas. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Optimus murmured, deep in thought. Starting a new character without being obligated to erase Optronix, get a new, fresh start with another type of character class… that was tempting. Very tempting. He could try to play without being a pretender, be himself, be... Well, he didn’t know what to be. “They added anything new for characters?”

Rung shook his head dejectedly. “Not as far as I know. There are rumors a fifth class evolution exists for the Scholars, but nobody was ever able to confirm it. Not that I mind, I like mine well enough.”

Ah, so Rung played a Scholar; Optimus wasn’t surprised. It fitted him. Though if he had evolved his character… “You’re a Blue Mage?” he asked politely. Rung struck him as a Blue Mage for some reason.

Rung laughed. “Oh goodness, no, no. I could have been, I admit, because that was what I had been aiming for at first, but no. Actually, I’m a Geomancer – you know about Geomancers, right?”

“Uh, no?” Optimus answered, trying to remember if he had met someone playing the class on S.T.O. but to no avail. Scholars usually became Red Mages or Blue Mages or sometimes Runecasters, but Geomancers? Though if he remembered right, there had been something other players had told him about… “Isn’t that a terrain-based class?”

Rung nodded. “Exactly. I always found it funny that the game made Blue and Red Mages Support classes instead of putting them in the Magician classes; Geomancers should have been included as well.”

“I guess they wanted to add more variety?” Optimus tried. “Plus, those spells aren’t inane, unlike for the Magician classes. You got to find a monster with an enemy skill to imitate or a tome to allow you to use the spell.”

“My, you’re a connoisseur,” Rung joked. “You seem to have done a lot of researches.”

Optimus felt his cheeks heat up. “I guess I did?” Most had been on behalf of Elita, because she didn’t want to be a Fighter class, but she hadn’t been able to decide on what she wanted instead. Optimus had spent a lot of time looking over the pros and cons of each class with her, even making schemas and diagrams to help her choose.

He had never thought that one day, he would be falling back on them for any reason.

Rung had removed his glasses and was watching him with kind optics. “It’s good to see you have such interest in the game. While I’d like for us to discuss it more at length, I’m afraid our session is reaching its end. Perhaps we can pursue this line of conversation next time? You’re here for three decacycles, right? I’d like for us to meet again before that time is up.”

“Of course, doctor,” Optimus nodded meekly, letting Rung walk to his desk and peruse through his agenda to find a free spot – which he knew from experience would be hard to find. Rung had very charged solar cycles. He was one of Cybertron’s most famous psychiatrists, after all. The Elite Guard exclusively went through him as well as many celebrities, and still Rung kept the door of his office open for everyone, no matter who they were or their social status. The downside of which was that he often had to reschedule appointments if an emergency rose up, even if Optimus only had had the misfortune to experiment it once.

(Which had mostly been because Sentinel Major had been scheduled to come on the same solar cycle and Rung had not wanted the two to accidentally cross paths.)

If you added the difficulties of Optimus being off Cybertron for the most part, finding a free spot could be a true hassle. But Rung made a sound of triumph and Optimus knew that he’d be seeing Rung faster than he would have thought.

“I got two spots free next decacycle; any preference between morning or afternoon?”

“Morning,” Optimus replied automatically. He had become an early riser since Autoboot Camp; Kup Minor had been very fond of waking them up at dawn when they expected it the least, initiating many groans from the Cadets as they run around, trying to get ready on time. Rather than always being rushed, Optimus had found it easier to just get up every day at the same time and if Kup Minor didn’t wake them up with shouts and an alarm, he’d spend the time reviewing the Autobot Code or lesson plans while listening to the heavy snoring of Sentinel on the berth above…

Frag. He’d never have thought he’d missed it someday, but crazily enough, he did.

“Well, that’s settled. I’m looking forward seeing you again, Optimus. Take care,” Rung said, smiling. “And I’m counting on you to tell me all about your new gaming experience, of course.”

“… I will,” Optimus promised. And if his voice lacked conviction, neither him nor Rung mentioned it.


	5. Origins. Optimus 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choosing a game class is never easy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, not much development in this chapter, but a lot of, say, info dump for the game itself. I hope you'll enjoy it all the same.

Rung hadn’t lied; the second Avatar option of the game really came in with a nice amount of shanix. However, as the upgrade installed itself, Optimus didn’t think he really regretted the choice to go through with it. Shanix were just piling up unused on his bank account so it wasn’t as if he was lacking in funds and so long he hadn’t found a place to live, they weren’t seeing much use.

Much to his chagrin, he hadn’t managed to find a flat by the time the Dion had docked back on Cybertron so he was currently spending his time in the barracks. On the plus side, he had managed to get an individual room for himself this time, which was rare enough to note; there were less teams on Cybertron right now, it seemed. That, or perhaps the fact he was recorded as an officer on the Dion had played up in freeing him a room, he couldn’t say.

Honestly, it wasn’t much bigger than his room on the Dion and there was a strange smell clinging to the place, making him wonder if the previous tenant hadn’t been taking drugs or circuit boosters. But at least here he had his own window, Optimus thought with irony as he took in the dim light of a few buildings – and a lot of smog. The barracks were situated on the edge of the industrial district, which made for a poor sight. If you added the lack of comfort of the barrack berths themselves and the promiscuity, it was no wonder the barracks tended to be mostly empty during the day as everyone filled out to go to the entertainment centers.

But it fitted Optimus just well. At least he knew there’d be no one to interrupt him once he started playing.

If he played. Because he was still feeling hesitant about it, despite the second Avatar option he had just bought.

He had not even chosen a class for his potential new character yet either. To be honest, however, there were a lot of options to choose from – especially once you decided you wanted to make your character ‘evolves’ and change class, which often presented multiple options. And those evolutions didn’t happen automatically, oh no; you always needed to find an item or finish a specific quest line before being allowed to do so and the higher you climbed, the harder it became.

At its simplest level, Seiberutopia Tales Online proposed players to choose between incarnating a Fighter class, a Magician class, a Ranger class or a Supporter class. The Fighter class declined itself into three basic possibilities: the Lancer, the Barbarian or the Warrior.

The Lancer used heavy Spears as weapons as well as javelins; they were quick but could take less damages. As a beginner class, they weren’t very popular. But then you had its evolutions; on one hand, you had the Valkyrie, which was rumored to be only usable by femmes (though the rumor had more or less be debunked by the game managers, as far as Optimus knew). Valkyries could take more damage and had a special Revive command that was unique to them, allowing them to bring back a KOed party member with a full health bar. They also inflicted thrice the normal amount of damages on several enemies types, though Optimus couldn’t remember which at the top of his head. Then you had the other Lancer evolution, the Predacon Knight; while its resistance was less than the Valkyrie, it came with the unique Command ‘Jump’, which allowed him to attack from above – a move that put him outside of range for most enemies spells and allowed him special attacks with large AOE when he came back down.

The Barbarian had not a good reputation on Cybertron, but it was mostly because it was a favored class of the Decepticon players – for yes, Decepticons could and did play the game, for the game concepters and providers were completely Neutral in all manners of conflict. But nevermind. The Barbarian was lightly armored, but compensated its lack of defense by heavy damage dealing blows. Clubs, maces, war hammers, broadswords were their favored type of weapons – and Optimus had actually no idea of their special moves and commands because no self-respecting Autobot ever wanted to play a Barbarian. He just knew they could evolve either into a Marauder, still lightly armored but able to equip shields and with a speed boost, or into a Berseker, the trademark Decepticon class.

Then you had the Warrior, which opened even more possibilities. Optimus had been a Warrior when he had started the game the first time around, because being a Warrior allowed you to become a Knight. And the Knight… the Knight could become a Paladin, the Ultimate class evolution for this branch. There were very few of them in game, the most famous being none other than Ultra Magnus himself. Many Autobots desired to become like him and be Paladins as well, but most stayed locked at the Knight. As far as Optimus knew, Sentinel was still searching for the Benediction of the Hand, the item allowing the player to transition to Paladin; it had been his and Optimus’ obsession, once upon a time…

He sighed and shook his head. Well, he wasn’t going to pick that again, that was for certain. He had also no desire to hunt down the fabled [Benediction of the Magi], which allowed the Knight to become a Mystic Knight instead of the holy Paladin – another rare class, whose best example was Dai Atlas. It was, however, technically easier to become a Mystic Knight than a Paladin, so that was still an idea.

But no. No, Optimus didn’t think he’d be happy with being a Warrior at all; he had no desire to be a Gladiator – another Deception-connoted class – nor its evolutions into Duelist or Swordmaster. As for Samurai… no, definitely not.

A Magician class, then? You had the Cleric, who could become a Sage or Priest, depending on if you wished to be offensive or defensive, which in turn could get you up to Shaman or Druid or Bishop or Archpriest – but then you had to deal with a pretty weak beginner class, and that wasn’t really appealing anyway. It was also damn popular and while Optimus kinda wished to be lost in the mass, a part of him still wanted recognition, still wanted something special. He didn’t think he’d found it in the Spellcaster branch either; Mage or Enchanter or Conjurer and their evolutions of Archmage, Sorcerer, Warlock or Summoner – though the Summoner class was tempting, he had to admit. A Healer, then? Healer had no class evolution, but compensated that ‘handicap’ but having access to a double job option when it came to crafting – and they were always in high demand.

But no; Optimus didn’t feel like a Healer anyway.

That left the Ranger and the Supporter classes.

With Ranger classes, you had the option to choose Scout, Grappler or Hunter. Light on their pedes, hand to hand fighting, ability to disappear in the background until you attacker and attack from the distance and with the help of a tamed pet – all good reasons to choose one or the other. Scoot would become a Wanderer, a boosted version of the class, or a Rogue, a sinister take on ‘sneaking around’. The Rogue could in turn become a Ninja, but Optimus scrapped the idea immediately. He didn’t feel like a Ninja at all. The Grappler could become a Black Belt or a Monk, depending on if he wanted to be a pure hand to hand fighter and pretend to ‘illumination’ and have access to interesting Command. And the Hunter… well, the Hunter could become a Trapper, specialized into trap-laying, very useful on battlefields, or into a Beastmaster, THE class that allowed you to tame pet and use them in combat alongside your avatar. A good class for solo players, and one Optimus was becoming tempted with.

Still, he mentally reviewed what he knew of Supporter classes. They… weren’t very popular on the whole, asides of the Archer beginner class – and who in the Pit had put it into Supporters instead of Rangers, Optimus had no idea, but it wasn’t logical! – which in turn gave access to Gunner (users of guns and rifles), which itself branched out into either Cannoneer or Sniper. You also had the Minstrel, often considered as a joke class by players whose idea of playing was to hack the enemy to death. In itself, it wasn’t that bad – but it wasn’t a class for solo players, and neither were its evolutions into Dancer or Bard. Although, Optimus thought as he recalled the articles, the Dancer class had gained in popularity upon Rosanna’s revelation she was a Dancer in game, prompting many of her fans to follow her lead.

And then, finally, last of the Supporter classes, you had the Scholar. Now, that made Optimus pause.

The Scholar was rather unassuming as far as beginner classes went; it had a weak defense, a weak to mid attack and an average speed. It had very good dexterity and dodge stats, however – and its evolutions were very polyvalent. The Scholar didn’t use magic but magical items to cast spells on its enemy. It could understand all the spoken and written languages in the game, which was interesting if you wanted to explore the map to its fullest and learn all the hidden secrets scattered around. The Scholar could become a Red Mage, who could up a dozen of spells taken from the Magician classes, albeit in a weaker version making him versatile. The Blue Mage could learn enemy and monster spells, provided he had had them cast on him first. The Runecaster… well, the Runecaster used runes to increase their party’s stats – and written Runes could be added directly on equipment to reinforce its basic stats, giving the wearer a permanent boost. Not the most popular, but highly respected.  
And there was the Geomancer, Optimus mentally added, remembering Rung’s admission. And the mysterious fifth class, if it existed at all.

For a moment, Optimus hesitated. Scholar didn’t sound bad. He could actually picture himself playing as one.

“Scholar,” he murmured aloud. “Scholar Optimus.” He rather liked the sound of it; this time, he’d use his real name, not a make-up name that would make him sound more dashing than he really was. He’d be truer to himself this time around. Nodding to himself, he started to connect the earphone to his helmet. “Let’s go with it, then.”

Here’s hoping I’m not making a bad choice, he mentally added as the world around him dissolved into pixels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Class system and its evolution plus hunt for relics to unlock the superior classes is something I was inspired by _Seiken Densetsu 3_ , which I absolutery adored as a teen when my brothers found a Roms and I watched them play/played it in turn. The whole Light/Dark class evolution was great, though I always found it hard to choose lol
> 
> (Who else screamed when they saw they were _finally_ releasing the game officially outside Japan and were making a remake during the Nintendo E3 presentation? I sure did :p)
> 
> It was going to be a little more developped originally, then I realized I might have started making too complex.
> 
> One more chapter, and we'll have finished Optimus' beginning story; stay tuned!


	6. Origins. Optimus 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of Optimus' origins story; I hope you'll enjoy ;)

“Beautiful,” Optimus murmured to himself as he turned on himself and let his optics wander all around him, a delighted smile on his lips.

He had forgotten how amazing the Darnaxus Glades looked. Once upon a time, players had elected it the prettiest region in the game. Darnaxus Glades formed an immense forest crisscrossed by many sheltered paths, the forest itself being divided into four different zones, each one reflecting a ‘season’ like the ones found on organic world. The Pink Wood features trees charged with pink, purple and white flowers while the Bare Wood’s trees were for the most part naked, some of them featuring black or silver thing leaves when they weren’t bending under the heavy weight of snow. Savvy players preferred to avoid this area unless they had Winter Gear, for the cold lingering in that part of the Glades added a malus to your stats.

Currently, Optimus was walking through his favorite area in the Glades, the Golden Wood. Branches charged with ruby red, brown and golden leaves stretched above him, so high and so dense you couldn’t even catch a glimpse of the sky. Fallen leaves were forming a golden carper under his pedes as they cracked and crushed under his steps. Here and there, bright flowers peeked up from under piles of leaves and mushrooms grew on and around solitary trees. If you looked right, you could see inoffensive Dexisquirrels running up the massive trunks or Turbo-foxes zigzagging between the trees. You could even hear the sound of singing Lilleths in the distance – and there was probably a quest to find by following their song, but Optimus didn’t dare leaving the path yet, not when he already had a task to fulfill.

His optics caught sight of a particularly big red flower with needle-like petals just left of the path. He couldn’t remember ever seeing one; perhaps it was a new addition to the flora due to the game’s upgrade? A Botanist would probably have found usable herbs in there, Optimus mused, wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t have chosen it as his job. But Miner was better, he reminded himself, mindlessly caressing the handle of his axe; it was the only way for him to unlock the use of axes and pikes for a Scholar.

Playing Scholar was tougher than Optimus had first though, especially when one was used to take minimal damages in melee due to having played a Tank. The moment he had left the starting zone after getting through the tutorial, a Wild IronBoar had run at him. Battling him had been… different. Without the heavy armor Optimus had been used to with his Knight and with only a dagger as a starting weapon, the monster had taken a little under half his life on his lonesome before Optimus had managed to bring it down, whereas the Warrior and later Knight he had been wouldn’t have lost a 10th of his life.

He was also much slower than he had expected, which was a problem. He could think all the moves he wanted, but his Avatar body wasn’t following. A speed boost would be sorely needed at some point, he decided as he paused under the shade of a particularly large tree on which dark green vines speckled with grey were growing. Right. That was the landmark he had been seeking. Passing left of the trunk, he started to walk away from the path in a straight line, keeping an optic out for monsters. Thankfully for him, that part of the Golden Wood seemed free of enemies, at least at the moment. It could change following the time of the day.

It was just as well, because his character sheet wasn’t exactly great at the moment.

**Optimus LV. 4**  
[CLASS] Scholar  
[JOB] Miner LV. 2  
[STR] 5  
[DEF] 8  
[VIT] 6  
[SPD] 6  
[AGI] 7  
[DEX] 7  
[INT] 10  
[WIS] 10  
[LUC] 8

Yeah, he really needed to work on his strength; Optimus winced as he checked it again. He didn’t have much gold yet, but perhaps he could still find Runes to buy at the Auction House? Unless he became a Runecaster and made his owns? That would surely help. Granted, having reached Level 4 already was good, because EXP to change level was harder to come by than in his memories, but it still made him long for his Knight, who had been Level 53 when the workload of the Academy had forced him to stop playing regularly, and Level 54 when…  
Better not to think about it, he reminded himself.

He would need to speed up on choosing a class evolution; staying a Scholar if he played alone would only become more and more difficult as he rose in Level and explored new regions. Monsters seemed to sense him from far even now; despite being careful about his moves, he still encountered three RubiumVipers in the fallen leaves. Luckily for him, he had made sure to stock on various basic dishes to heal up his HP. While it made him a bit of a sitting DynamoDuck, it had been cheap enough for him to fill his inventory until he reached the next outpost on the map.

Which he would definitely be heading out the moment he was done here, Optimus promised himself.

A swipe of his axe took care of a fourth and he sighed. He really needed some magic or Runes augment his chances.

By this point, he was seriously thinking of becoming a Red Mage. The quest line to access the evolution was well-known and not too complicated; the difficulties would be in finding the Tomes allowing the learning of new cells as well as choosing which ones he really wanted; the Red Mage had a limit to how many he could know. Yes, he decided. Once he left Darnaxus Glades proper and reached Woodland Town, he’d start looking for the Red Mage quest line.

Optimus progressed through the Glades at a steady pace, paying attentions to tiny details to check he was still on the right path: a stump surrounded by a ring of mushrooms here, a fallen truck covered with moss there, a stream on his left he used to orient himself in the right direction… He had spent a lot of time in the Golden Wood as Optronix, hunting down MechaGoblins brigands, Optimus remembered fondly. As such, he knew the region as well as he knew his subspace pocket. It was a good thing too, because the Abandoned AuraPine Career really was well hidden.

But here it was, spreading below his pedes. The carpet of golden leaves had left its place to rocks and abandoned excavating equipment, decrepit crates, fallen dark trunks cut in pieces, rusted axes still stuck in them. The zone was, at first glance, devoided of monsters, but Optimus still kept an optic out for them as he started to make his way down the Career. As he did so, he activated the Mining Filter, looking around for deposits he could use his pickaxe on.

A good system, he thought to himself as he headed for the nearest. Filters were used by forager such as Botanists and Miners; they usually appeared like a visor in front of an avatar’s optics and allowed the user to see flowers, herbs, ores and anything of foraging value more easily by highlighting them. Usually, as far as Optimus knew, the more radiant the highlight, the higher level the items gathered were. He wasn’t certain yet though, because as Optronix, he had chosen Fisher as a job and the system was different.

“Let’s see what we have there,” he murmured aloud as he aimed for the cluster of rocks and started to dig in earnestly. It took half a dozen of strike before the rocks broke and Optimus was able to gather 3 [Golden Rocks] in his hands. Basic material, Optimus knew, they had little interest except perhaps for perhaps Tinkers and eventually, Machinists wanting to redo old designs. Their monetary value was weak so he wouldn’t be able to sell them for much but even a few bronze coins wouldn’t hurt at this point.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he was searching for rare ores, he reasoned himself as he moved to a second cluster, then a second, a third, a fourth,… He stopped counting after a while, just checking from time to time how many [Golden Rocks] were piling in his inventory. [Broken Rock Shards] joined them from time to time, as well as the rarer [Yellow Rock Shards] – pretty to make jewelry, he noted, but not useful otherwise. No matter, no matter, Optimus repeated to himself. He was just trying to level up on his Job so he’d be able to find good items and, eventually, relics later on; you could find many by exploring Ruins and they sold well in the Auction Houses, especially the class change Relics.

It wasn’t the only way, of course. What would Sentinel ever do if he learned that Optimus had found, just by fishing…?

The pickaxe made a strange sound as it hit the latest rocks cluster, making Optimus blink and frown at the rocks suspiciously. No, there was no additional highlighting on the Filter, nothing special appearing on the screen. It was just a cluster among many others. But for some reason, the pickaxe hadn’t even made a scratch on the rocks.

“Curious,” he said to himself, crouching down and touching the rocks, poking and palpating them just in case. Nothing. It was just dumb, plain normal rock. Plain normal rock that seemed incredibly resistant to blows. Unless the clusters was supposed to be only damageable by high-level players? But no, that couldn’t be it; if Optimus tuned up the filter, he could see the rock’s ‘level’, showing it could be dug up by Miners Level 2 and up, which Optimus definitely was.

So why…?

Then it dawned brutally on him.

“Oh. Oooooh. Oh no,” Optimus shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not possible. No. No, no, no. I can’t have found a rare item _already_? I know Sentinel said I had the weirdest luck streak in games, but I can’t just have… Not with a Level 2 job!” Almost Level 3, actually, since the mining he had just down had helped him get his EXP points up, but still.  
He face palmed. Not that he wasn’t grateful for rare finds, but seriously? If he ever told anyone about that, they would never believe him.

Of course perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it was just a particularly resistant rock. Perhaps there were rocks like that in every digging sites, to incite higher-level Miners to come back in beginner areas and mix up with lower-level players. Perhaps once he finished breaking it apart, he would only find some [Gold Nuggets] or a [Yellow Diamond].

“Right,” Optimus reassured himself as he shifted his hold on his pickaxe and started swinging it up and down again on the rocks. “Just a very resistant rock.”

Two times. Five times. Ten times. Fifteen times. The rock cracked slowly and Optimus started to lost count of how many hits he had given it. He had to stop several times, needing rest when his stamina began to run low. “A fragging resistant rock,” he mumbled unhappily as he sat down. Good thing the stamina was an out-of-fight feature only, else he’d easily be toasted. He looked up at the still half-cracked rock in distaste; the crack barely reached the middle of the cluster. “I really, really hope the recompense will be worth it.”

The Career was only filled with the sound of his pickaxe on the rock and the distant sound of Lilleths. The game background music had faded to the point of being barely audible but even if it had been, Optimus would have paid it no attention whatsoever, his entire processor focused on the task at hand.

“Woohoo!” he hooted in victory when finally the rock broke with a small chiming sound. “So what were you hiding, you…?” he started to say before the words died on his lips. He stared, long and hard, at the displayed item lists.

There was indeed a [Yellow Diamond] in the rubbles. But there was more, oh yes, far more.

With trembling digits, he lifted the [Globe of Earth] from the pebbles, his optics glued to the description scrolling down next to it.

_[The “Globe of Earth” is a sacred relic from times long past, allowing the user to connect with the magic of Earth and nature and turn it to their advantage, thus transforming them in a Geomancer.]_

“Of all the luck…” Optimus said faintly. Geomancer. An item to actually become a Geomancer. He swallowed. Of all the luck…

That… was leaving him in a bind. He had been seriously thinking about the Red Mage class until now but with the relic in his hands, the possibility to change immediately his Scholar into something more durable, something with magic abilities to complete his (weak) fighting skills before he even left Darnaxus Glades…

Should he try? If he did and he didn’t like the class, Optimus wouldn’t be able to change it again unless he erased his character. Of course, given he didn’t have a high level yet or involved too much into his Scholar Avatar, it wouldn’t be that bad, he supposed.

His hands stroked the [Globe of Earth] machinally. To use it or not use it. In his mind, he pictured Rung. Rung seemed so enthusiastic about his own in-game dealings as a Geomancer. Wouldn’t it be good to say to him, the next time Optimus went for his appointment, that he had tried to play as a Geomancer himself?  
With a shaky nod, Optimus took his decision.

[Do you want to use the Globe of Earth? – Y/N?]

“Yes,” Optimus murmured and closed his optics as everything around him dissolved into pixels. He knew next to nothing about how a Geomancer worker, what were the spells and how to use them, what advantages it had and what inconvenient he would be sure to face. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

It was going to be an adventure, and one he was going to try to enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Geomancer Optimus coming up in the future, which might be very funny -- not so much for whoever will face him, though ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Next time on your screen: Ratchet, or how a grumpy medic with no interest in young 'bots hobby decided to take up MMORPG as an hobby (and more, so much more).


	7. Origins. Ratchet 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet makes a living in the Dead Ends. It's a not a pretty life, but at least he can be useful, can't he?

“Congratulation, Frack; it’s an ITV.”

As he watched the face of the thin mech in front of him fall, Ratchet tried very hard not to feel uncharitable and to not scream. He had known it would happen for vorns now and, when everything was said and done, it wasn’t really Frack’s fault if he had picked one of the many Interfacing Transmissible Virus that run rampant on Cybertron.

Not when his trade WAS interfacing.

“Slag, slag, slag,” the thin mech bemoaned, face in his hands. He really looked panicked about it and Ratchet’s sympathy, which he had sworn to keep in check, reared its head a little. “What am I going to do now?”

“Take the necessary antivirus patches and stop interfacing with anyone, mechfriend or clients, until I say you can,” the medic replied dryly to the nonsensical question. Frack gave him a look from between his spread fingers that was part panicked and part unamused. It just made Ratchet sigh. “Please, mechling, get a hold of yourself. It’s not the end of the universe,” he said as gently as he could – which wasn’t much, he had to admit, but he was going to chalk it up on being tired and wanting nothing more than be done with his consultations for the day.

“It isn’t? But Skiff said that an ITV can melt your insides?” the thin mech before him asked in a lost voice and Ratchet sighed. For all he had tried to teach Dead End’s inhabitants prevention and how to treat less serious ailments by themselves and educate them on how serious or not serious they were if they got to a medic like him on time, the lessons hardly seemed to stick – or at least they didn’t with Frack.

Ratchet wasn’t sure it was because the mech was a bit dimwitted or because he believed all of his ‘mechfriend’ (Ratchet personally thought of that fragger as Frack’s pimp) words and advices as if they held the truth of the universe, even above a certified physician like the old medic manning the last free clinic on the block. As a medic, Ratchet wanted nothing more than to drop his ‘Healer, do not harm’ pledge and walk up to that son of a trash compactor to punch him in the face. Sadly, it wouldn’t help Frack – and it risked to alienate him from Ratchet and the clinic and that mech **needed** the medical help.

“ITV can’t melt your insides,” he said calmly, controlling his desire to just be sarcastic. Others diseases could have, of course, but there was no need to panic his patient further. “But they can be highly contagious and they will harm your systems if you don’t treat them quickly. What you have, Frack, is called MeChamidya; that’s why you have those burning sensations in your valve and spike. Do you remember the charter I showed you? No?” he added as Frack shook his head. “It’s alright.” Actually, it wasn’t, but it was Ratchet’s job to explain again and again, and he was going to do it. “I’ll give you another copy and new pamphlets for you to read. Just to reassure you, it’s probably the most benign ITV you could catch. That said, have you used the patches I gave you last time?”

Flack fidgeted in his seat. “Uh, well, you see, I, uh, I may have, uh, kinda… forgotten?”

How surprising, Ratchet dryly thought to himself, but he wasn’t surprised by the answer; if Frack had indeed used them, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. “I see,” he said simply. “Well, it’s a bit late for them to be efficient now so if you still have them, I’m going to ask you to either bring them back to the clinic or to dispose of them in an appropriate recycling bin. You can do that?”

Frack nodded meekly. “Yes, doc.” He would probably try, Ratchet mused, but wherever he managed to follow through was another thing entirely. He’d have to check and recheck in the next decacycle. “And… what do I do, for, you know?” he asked uncertainly, gesturing at his array’s general area with flushed cheeks.

That what reminded Ratchet that the mech in front of him was really young and naïve, in his own way. Oh, scratch that – if the mech hadn’t been some kind of sickeningly naïve Spark, he would have never let his mechfriend/pseudo future Conjunx convince him to resort to prostitution when Frack had lost his job at the local factory. But Frack wasn’t exactly special either, Ratchet reminded himself; the Dead Ends were full of mechs with such stories. Ratchet saw to dozens of ‘bots in the same situation every solar cycles. Frack just had the dubious ‘honor’ to being one of the few who accepted to regularly come to see a medic – even if he didn’t always listen to say medic’s sound advice.

“First off, you’re going to have to call of your partners in the last two decacycle,” Ratchet started and Frack looked crushed; did the mech even know the names of the mechs and femmes who had picked him up on the street corner, he wondered? “They need to be warned in order to get tested too. Most of them probably won’t have caught it.” If their firewalls were up to date, anyway. “But either way, it’s better safe than sorry. I’m going to prescribe you a nanite-charged salve to rub over your array if the burning sensations get too strong. And in the meanwhile, we are going to install a new anti-virus patch you will have to renew every solar cycle for one orn. One whole orn,” he stressed out, “it’s very important. You can’t cut it short unless you want to virus to keep lurking in your systems.” And now the hardest part. “And of course, you will have to exempt yourself from any kind of interfacing activity until the treatment is done with.”

At that, Frack made a sound that sounded midway between a choke and a whine. “But… but I can’t! I… How am I supposed to bring money for Skiff if I can’t…?”

If Skiff had the good sense of picking a job, then the question wouldn’t have to be posed. Ratchet bite back on his instinctive answer though; trash-talking about Frack’s ‘one true love’ would only push him away and Ratchet preferred to keep an optic on the mech as much as he could. “I’m sure you can find another job in the meanwhile,” he assured Frack. And possibly stay on it while he was at it, but he wasn’t holding his hopes up; even if Frack gave it a serious try, either the job would turn out to be temp thing or Skiff would persuade him to drop it because ‘he was worth so much more’ – especially with his legs spread open. Ratchet knew how it worked; it had happened thrice already. He just gave Frack a joyless smile. “I’ve heard they’re still hiring part-time waiters for that new dinner for truckers on the 8th street; perhaps you can see there if they need a set of servos? Or,” he added after mentally reviewing the ads a few companies had pain-stakily agreed to post on the monitor board of the clinic, “perhaps you can try the call center? They want people to reinforce their team for the upcoming celebrations for the end of the War.”

Frack didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue with Ratchet; if anything, he was pretty quiet as the medic started to work on him, digging through his firewalls and adding the patch needed while making sure it was reacting properly. The young mech was usually chattier but given the bad news Ratchet had shared with him, it didn’t surprise the old medic. He gave him a pat on the shoulder before sending him off. “Take care, Frack. I’ll see you next decacycle to see if the patches worked fine. And if you need to, in the meanwhile, don’t forget the clinic is always open.”

“Yes, doc,” Frack muttered, leaving without another word. Ratchet watched him go with shaded optics; he wasn’t sure Frack would come back for his next check-up. He remotely added a note in Frack’s files on the computer in case he came back at a time Ratchet wasn’t here for the other medics manning the clinic, letting them know to check if anything was amiss. Slagging Skiff, he thought as he walked over the waiting room to go pick his next patient. Hopefully the fragger wouldn’t force Frack to interface despite the ITV, but Ratchet wasn’t holding his breath; if that sorry excuse of mech wanted fast credits, Frack would be all too willing to provide him with them.

Ugh. Better think of something else. What the next patient would have in store for him, for example. He stopped at the greeting desk briefly, just nodding at the tiny femme who was manning it – slag, what was her name? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. All he was certain about was that she was a new one, you just had to look at her smile and well-maintained paintjob to know it; he wondered how long she’d last here – and picking up the upgraded list of patients still waiting for a consultation with one of the two medics on duty this evening.

“Capel?” he called out aloud in the waiting room threshold – still as shabby looking as usual, the new chairs they had managed to get were all mismatched and the walls really needed a new coat of paint – and tried not to sigh as the mech he had called got up. At least it was obvious what this one’s problem was – especially since Ratchet had already treated him for it a while ago. “Hello there, Capel,” he greeted flatly. “I see the rust infection is back?”

The big mech’s rubbed the back of his helm, vocal indicators flashing briefly. He looked unhappy, but not overly worried – then again, given it was a chronic condition, he knew what to expect. One of the many inheritances from the war which continued to plague the population despite the authorities claiming up was ‘perfectly fine now’, Ratchet thought cynically. “Yeah doc, it is. Fragging thing started up again three solar cycles ago.” It always surprised how soft and pleasant that lumberjack of mech’s voice was. He was also damn lucky his rusting was always contained to external plating; Ratchet had known mechs whose vocalizers had corroded from different variant of ruse infections.

Ratchet gave him a once over as he lead the way to his office. The mech’s massive arms were covered in spots of various sizes and a particularly large one had developed on his hip. “And it has already spread so far? Curious. Well, let’s see what we can do for you,” he said as he closed the door of the office behind him.

*-*-*-*-*-*

“Thank you for your time, Ratchet, Knock Out,” Ambulon nodded to them as he officially took his shift; Tweese had already left toward his own office without sharing a word but the mech had never been much of a talker. Personally, Ratchet envied neither of them; night shifts didn’t bring in many patients in comparison to the rest of the day but the Dead Ends were sinister at night and there had been incidents with junkies before. They had been promised a security guard ever since but it had yet to happen.

No surprise here, he thought snidely. Still, he put on a smile for Ambulon before turning and leaving, trusting the other mech to take care of himself, the patients and the clinic until the morning team came to relieve them.

“Aaaand we’re done! Woohoo!”

Ratchet glared at Knock Out’s back as the other medic walked in front of him toward the clinic’s doors, arms stretched high above his head and a bounce in his steps. “Cheery fellow, aren’t you?” he grumbled, only for Knock Out to turn and give him a look.

“Oh, light up, Ratchet; you can’t tell me you aren’t happy to see the end of the shift? Imagine; no more rust infection, no more ITV, no more systems flush for drug addicts, no more attempts at getting mechs to drop the heavy drinking,…” the red mech listed on his digits. He looked disgusted. “Gosh, the last one purged all over my pedes; I’m going to have to spend the night bathing them in disinfectant to get the stench out. I swear to Primus I’m not getting paid enough to deal with that slag.”

“You poor, poor mech,” Ratchet replied, taking a falsely commiserating look. “One has to wonder why you choose to be a medic if you’re so rebutted by the actual work.”

Knock Out made a tsk tsk sound between his clenched dental plates. “Are you insinuating I’m not a true medic, dear Ratchet? Didn’t you see the diplomas on my wall?”

“Oh, I saw them well enough,” the older mech grumbled. Knock Out made a point of hanging them in plain view every time he took a shift and took them off again when he left the clinic.

Diplomas from a second-order medical school on Vehicon, sure, but real enough, as much as Ratchet disliked admitting it. Of course, just because he had the official title didn’t mean Knock Out was a good medic – or at least, not a good medic to work in the Dead Ends, Ratchet corrected himself reluctantly. Vehicon had always been more interested in cosmetic surgeries than what the old mech considered true medicine. Knock Out would probably be more at ease working on fellow racers, giving them new tires and flashy plating, mounting boosters and injectors and other racing mods as well as taking care of the occasional benign virus, and they both knew it.

Instead, he was here, much to both his and Ratchet’s aggravation.

It was stupid, but Ratchet had never been able to really like Knock Out. He could be civil most of the time but sometimes, the red mech grated on his CPU. It wasn’t the lack of what Ratchet would call ‘proper medical experience’ because Knock Out was certainly gaining it in the Dead Ends. It wasn’t the lack of berthside manners because that would have been hypocritical coming from Ratchet himself. It wasn’t the flashy personality either, what’s with Knock Out enjoying making grand entrances in the clinic every shift he was scheduled to work there, perfectly painted and waxed and polished and screeching the moment something scratched his paint (though it probably didn’t help). It wasn’t even Knock Out’s past as a Decepticon medic during the war!

Because yes, Knock Out had been a Decepticon – at least until he wanted to be on the winning side when things had started to look sour for Megatron around the time of the Battle for Iacon. Now, Ratchet didn’t blame him for picking the Decepticons; every side in the conflict had needed medics and many of Ratchet’s fellow graduates from Protihex Medical Mechanists University had decided to remain Neutrals in the end. Those who had joined the Decepticons had done so less by ideology and more because everyone had needed doctors and nurses. They all had sworn pacts of non-aggression and for the most part, they had stuck to it.

(Funny how easy it had been to make it stick once you informed your Commanders than anyone who had purposely shot at a medic with the intent to kill risked to never wake up from his next surgery, Primus be my witness. It hadn’t been 100% efficient, but it had helped bring the number of dead medical personnel down, fast and hard.)

No, Ratchet thought; he didn’t blame Knock Out for his past as a Decepticon, just as he didn’t blame Ambulon, one of the other clinic’s medics, for the side he had been on – and as a matter of fact, he got along just fine with Ambulon. Knock Out just rubbed him the wrong way because he was, well, him.

And Ratchet was stuck with him unless he decided to leave the Dead Ends. It’d be so easy; he had had quite the reputation before the War, a lot of contacts. Even now, former teachers and fellow students sent him messages asking him if he’d be interested in joining such or such hospital or even go teach a class at Protihex. Ratchet either said ‘no’, more or less politely depending on who asked or how pushy they were, or deleted the messages without reading them. He had no interest in going back to the fold, no after what he had seen and experienced during the War. At least Ultra Magnus had known when to cave in…

Oh, Ratchet would leave, eventually; it had been decided a long time ago. But today wasn’t the solar cycle and it was doubtful it would happen in the next couple of stellar cycles either.

He wished Knock Out would do the same but so far, no luck.

“Ever thought about going back to a proper formation to earn those credits you don’t have yet,” he asked casually as they stepped outside, though both choose to hang out under the neons lighting the sidewalks rather than leave immediately.

Knock Out made a dismissive gesture. “Either I’m not interested or they won’t allow me in so I see no reason to try at the moment. It won’t improve my current situation anyway.”

True enough, Ratchet silently agreed. Knock Out might be allowed to practice medicine on Cybertron, but he was still under heavy restrictions due to his former allegiance. That was the main reason he was working on a free clinic in the Dead End, on a meager salary directly provided by the Guilds Domesticus, who were chaperoning the project.

“You could still make a token effort,” he grumbled.

“Like you?” Knock Out retorted, and they glared at each other.

Oh yeah, perhaps it was actually the true reason he disliked Knock Out so much: the constant nagging about his lack of care for his frame. Ratchet maintained himself, but not to Knock Out’s high and rigid standards, which seemed to unnerve the race car. Ratchet had no idea why it bothered Knock Out so and he didn’t care; he was a grown mechanism and he could take his own decisions. So what if he wasn’t interested in getting polished? What if he didn’t go to Maintenance Institutes for regular check-ups in order to replace old pieces?

What if he enjoyed a cube or two too many when he was on breaks?

He was half-tempted to snap at the other mech to go nag someone else but he wouldn’t wish Knock Out on anyone.

The mutual glaring continued until a joyous honking sound made them both jump and turn. Knock Out broke up into a delighted smile as he rushed forward to greet the mech who was speeding their way, transforming in a sharp turn just as he reached the clinic’s steps.

“Breakie! You could come!” Knock Out gushed as he jumped into the bigger mech’s arm, who laughed as he lifted him up and spun him around. “Eh, eh, none of that, big mech!”

The tall mech with an optic patch just grinned before bending to kiss the red medic on the lips. “Of course I came; I had promised, didn’t I?” he said fondly as the two hugged each other close, making Ratchet briefly look away from the intimate gesture. “Oh, hello there, Ratchet.”

“Breakdown,” Ratchet nodded in greeting. Knock Out’s Conjunx was a familiar sight at the clinic, often escorting his lover to or back from work when their schedules coincided. An ex-Decepticon too, Ratchet knew, but fairly polite. Sometimes, the medical team had discussed hiring him to be their much needed muscle but nothing had come out of it. Yet. As far as Ratchet knew, Breakdown had no complaint about his work as a simple worker in a demolition company and hadn’t mentioned any interest into coming to work for the clinic.

“Things going well for you, doctor?” the red-faced mech asked before Knock Out had a chance to elbow him to make him understand he didn’t want to stay for idle conversation, a feeling Ratchet shared.

“Good as they can be around those parts,” he replied blandly. “But I don’t want to keep you from leaving. Must have things to do, eh?”

“That we do,” Knock Out purred, looking at his Conjunx with hungry optics that made Breakdown straighten and cough.

“Ah, uh, yes, yes. Glad to have seen you, doctor. Want to try and race to Maccadam’s? The drink is on me,” he offered the smaller mech at his side.

“Well, if you invite me… and the loser will pay the second drink!” Knock Out proclaimed as he transformed and started to speed down the street, a yelping Breakdown following him with several precious kliks late.

Ratchet watched them disappear on a corner with a shake of his head. Young ‘bots in love… He didn’t know wherever he wanted to scoff at them or wish them all the luck. At least those two did seem to know where they were going, since they had decided to take the Conjunx Endura rites together.

Thunder cracked in the distance, letting the medic knows a storm was brewing on the horizon. He couldn’t stay in the street forever, he reminded himself. Better get on with his usual program. He briefly checked his internal chronometer and hummed to himself. He still had half a megacycle left before Cybertron Central Infirmary closed for visitors. Just the time he needed…

*-*-*-*-*-*

“Hello there, Arcee,” he said quietly as he deposited the potted pink crystal blossom on the nightstand next to the berth. “I brought you a pink one this time; I thought it matched the color of your plating.”

It brought no reaction, of course. The femme lying on the berth remained utterly still, optics shuttered, and the beeping of the various machines she was hooked to never faltered as Ratchet dragged a chair over and sat by her side, back creaking as he did so. “Slag, but those things are uncomfortable,” he complained. “You’re lucky you don’t have to try them. Well, perhaps lucky isn’t the word,” he coughed awkwardly. He paused, then continued. “I hope you’ll like the crystal. It’s a Praxian ‘Venusian Sun’, whatever that means. I admit I’m not an expert, but the seller said it was easy to care for and very resistant. I hope he’s right.”

Of course there was no answer, but filling the silence with small talks over his latest present helped Ratchet feel better.

For the longest time, patients hadn’t been allowed to receive any gift while in the Central Infirmary; the moment the ban had been lifted three stellar cycles ago, Ratchet had made a point of bringing Arcee a new one each decacycle. Stuffed Dexi-squirrels or Krystar Iron-Bears, potted crystals, even databooks he read aloud for her until a nurse let him know it was time to leave.

Most had ended up in a collecting bin set asides for her to find when she eventually woke up.

If she ever woke up.

His fists tightened reflexively as he remembered the last conversation he had with the ward manager. Fragger wanted to move her out because ‘there wasn’t much to do for her anyway, so better put her in a corner where she won’t be a bother anyway’.

The four megacycles in the nearest Autotroopers station he had earned for having punched the smug slagger in the face had been well-worth it. The last Ratchet had heard of him, the mech had made no friend by saying the same thing about a mech in the ICU – one who had turned out to be the Spark-twin of a Senator.

Suffice to say, he wasn’t around anymore and his replacement, Kaput, was far nicer to deal with.

“If only I could operate on you myself,” Ratchet muttered as he gazed down sadly upon Arcee’s unconscious face. Perhaps he’d manage to put her out of her coma. But they had ‘neither the time nor the resources to attempt that kind of operation yet’ and Ratchet ‘lacked the authorizations and specific open-CPU surgery skills needed’.

Ah! The slag he did! And the resources and time bit was a familiar song by now, which often made him sarcastically ask where all theses resources and time went. So far, he had yet to be given an answer.

A bell started to ring loudly and a pre-recorded message invited all visitors to head toward the exits. “Slag, it’s time already?” He sighed and, after a moment of hesitation, brushed a hand againt Arcee’s forehead. “I need to go, Arcee. I promise I’ll stay longer next time,” he vowed as he got up. Maybe she couldn’t hear him, but he always felt better saying the words alound.

As he walked down the aisle, he paused briefly, frowning. Uh. Curious. He didn’t remember the patient in the third berth from the door having had a visor before. A novelty item brought by friends, perhaps?

Shrugging, Ratchet pushed the matter asides and docilely followed the nurse who was gently prompting the lagers to go down to the hospital’s lobby.

It was probably nothing important anyway.

And he had another stop to make before he headed home for some much needed recharge.


	8. Origins. Ratchet 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When not visiting Arcee, Ratchet visits another old friend. Another friend who can answer him...

“Here again, Ratchet? Don’t you have a life or something?”

Ratchet gave the foreman an unamused look as he stepped past the barriers of the worksite and took long strides toward his goal, a still in-reparation ship around which a group of red Autobot workers – mechanical specialists, curious, he hadn’t thought it was their turn to be there – were running. He could see sparks of light high above; probably a group working on a new welding on the hull.

“Strake,” he greeted tersely. “I’ll do without your comments.”

The green and black mech just had a booming laugh that shook his closed mouth plate. “Aww, but you’re so fun to tease, Ratchet. Joke asides,” he added more seriously, “you know that you don’t need to pass by every solar cycle, right? That ship is far from being repaired and it’s going nowhere, as you can see. We still haven’t found a way to correctly repair the energon rooting,” he added with furrowed optical bridges which betrayed his frustration.

Strake was supposed to be a good at his job, but he had once confided to Ratchet he may had bite more than he could chew when he had accepted the contract to put the ship codenamed Orion back into working order – or, as Ratchet thought grimly, in flight capacity; no one on the project but him, the Omega Project’s responsible and Ultra Magnus knew what the Orion truly was and it needed to stay that way, for safety purpose.

Strake thought he was only repairing one Autobot ship out of thousands that had taken heavy damages during the War. If he had known he was working on a sentient being, he probably would have been more respectful. Hopefully. He certainly did his best with the means and the teams he had, but his progresses were painstakingly slow.

“Money, my dear Ratchet,” he often confided to the medic when, on late evenings, he offered to share a flask of Ankmor Energon, his preferred drink. “It all come down to money. I’m no expert, mind you, but keeping the Space Bridges infrastructure in working order must cost its weight in shanix, yeah? And they prefer to repair the ships with less issues or commission and launch brand new ones before they get around and worry about those big, older models.” In those moments, he took a pensive look while he gazed at the Orion. “Personally, I don’t understand why they even put the Orion on the list. It’ll be a good ship once we’re done, that’s for sure, but if they wanted another Steelhaven-style ship, they’d have had an easier time to commission a new one.”

“Who said anything about the Steelhaven?” Ratchet had asked him casually, even though his Spark had skipped a beat.

Strake had snorted. “Oh, come on; I can read a schema and I did work on the Steelhaven’s renovations, you know. That’s our flagship’s twin you got here – and I can bet it’ll be a sweet ride once we can launch it. Which makes me wonder, Ratchet, why you old crochety medic self is so attached to that ship.” His optics hadn’t been suspicious. “Or why you’re listed as being a de facto crewmember whenever this thing will be ready, even if it takes hundreds of stellar cycles. Got something to tell me I should know about?”

And Primus be his witness if he truly existed, but Ratchet had seriously considered telling the foreman the truth; the mech was decent and good at his job and if he had been able to make Omega meet more people, Ratchet would have liked him to have met people like Strake. Strake, and the hundreds of Autobot workers who had made his shell and brought him online.

But Ratchet hadn’t. He had just shrugged and gave the foreman a disabused smile. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of favors a medic can accumulate in a war,” he had just stated, a hand caressing Omega’s hull as he would have a newborn protoform – which Omega technically was. “I served on that ship during the last half of the War and the Battle for Iacon. You could call me attached.”

“Aaah,” Strake had nodded along, expression nonplussed but with a look in his optics that indicated he got it, kinda. After the War was declared over, a lot of former soldiers hadn’t been able to just let go and settle back into civilian life. It wasn’t unheard of for many of them to ask to be stationed in a place which had marked them again, or to be asked to be part of the crew of a ship on which they had served. Strake probably knew mechs like that.

The lie had come out smoothly but had still left a sour taste on Ratchet’s glossa, even if it wasn’t technically a lie; just a half-truth. He had served on the Orion, then known as Omega Supreme, and he had asked to remain with him.

If Omega had still be flight-worthy, he would have been up somewhere in the stars with a motley crew. Instead, the damages his friend had suffered had been so great, the repairs so costly and deemed such a low priority in the wake of the reconstruction of Cybertron’s civilian infrastructure that Ratchet had ended up working in the Dead Ends, doing his best to take care of prostibots, drug addicts and alcoholics and mechs so poor they couldn’t afford treatment in classier, better furnished hospitals.

It wasn’t helping his faith into his fellow mechanisms, that was for sure, but at least he did some good. And the day Omega was repaired, the day he’d be able to bring him out of stasis, Ratchet would be able to tell him all about the way he had been upholding the ideals he had patiently taught to the Sentinel.

That day couldn’t come fast enough, in his humble opinion.

He missed speaking with Omega. Worse, he missed being able to speak with someone _about_ Omega.

The technical survival of the last two Omega Sentinels was a state secret. Ratchet had no proof, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was being watched to see if he let anything slip. He was given a lot of leeway because he had been Omega’s mentor and if the need came, they wanted him to take up that position again without having to wipe out the Sentinel’s processor, which would be time and cost efficient; but a lot of leeway wasn’t freedom.

Sometimes, Ratchet wanted to shout the truth for everyone to hear. Surely, popular opinion would be behind him if he asked for Omega to be brought back online properly? Or part of the popular opinion anyway; Senator Mirage was always in for the fight of individual freedom and the rights of all citizens, he’d be happy to help. But the Omega Sentinels had also frightened the population a great deal and who knew how they’d truly react if they learned two were still alive, albeit in stasis?

Strake, Ratchet thought, would probably take it in stride. Someday, perhaps he’d be able to tell the mech. Someday.

“I know,” he finally said in answer to Strake’s earlier question after realizing the green and black mech was watching him weirdly; frag, how long had he been lost in his thoughts? “But it sooths me to come and check on h… it whenever I can.”

“Which includes every night you’re not working,” the foreman shook his head. “You should consult, old mech. It’s not healthy.”

“It doesn’t harm anyone,” Ratchet shrugged, both annoyed and touched by the concern. “And there are worse quirks to have. Want me to drink myself to death? Or put fire to trashcans drones?”

“Primus above, no,” Strake chortled. “But you need a hobby, doc, mark my words. Anyway, if you want to go walk through the Orion’s hallways, you can. Just don’t venture near decks 6 to 8; they’re unstable.”

“I thought your team was working on it?” Ratchet asked with a frown.

“We are,” Strake confirmed, “but then we discovered the energon routing we did last orn didn’t take; one of the pumps broke and flooded the compartment, we had to make it a priority.”

“Damn,” Ratchet hissed. “You were able to clean out the mess?” Spilled energon could be highly flammable.

“Most of it, yes. I still got a team doing cleaning. And that’s why we’re currently working on the hull,” Strake nodded toward a group of red workers passing by. “At least outside, a spark won’t ignite the hellfires.”

Ratchet nodded grimly; he didn’t want to think how a fire would further damage Omega’s body.

“I give you a cycle; will that be alright with you, doc?”

“I had hoped for longer, I admit,” Ratchet allowed, but didn’t protest. Strake might let him come to check things over, but he had always been clear that Ratchet was only allowed on the worksite so long Strake and his mechs were around, and Ratchet respected the rules given to him. “You’re leaving early; some kind of festival going I don’t know about?”

“Almost,” Strake chuckled. “It’s the anniversary of the founding of our guild. Every Autobot worker is invited over at headquarters for a drink and snacks. They say we might even get a Windy concert,” he winked.

Ratchet shrugged; he had never cared much for singers. “Good for you,” he nonetheless said. “I’ll check out with you before leaving,” he waved at Strake over his shoulder.

“And remember! Avoid the decks 6 to 8!” Strake called after him. Ratchet wasn’t listening anymore; it wasn’t as if he had had any wish to go toward that end of the ship.

No. His target, as always, was deep in the bowels of the ships, in the secret access on desk 4 he alone had the key to.

Omega’s very own Spark chamber.

*-*-*-*-*-*

He had to give it to Strake's team, they did a very good job renovating Omega's hallways, Ratchet thought as he made his way to the 'heart' of the ship, using maintenance access -- the lifts were still being worked on and he wouldn't have trusted them anyway, not after the way they had crashed and been twisted around when Omega had fallen in the aftermath of the Battle for Iacon, slowly succumbing to the injuries afflicted to him by the Decepticons. it had bee a miracle in itself that Ratchet had managed to put him in stasis.

Still, even if the workers had done their best, the medic kept a careful optic around and slow footsteps. They may had gotten ride of the holes, the soot marks, the blackened panels left in the wake of various fires and Omega's structural integrity may have been considered good enough, but you never knew. Gently, he pressed a hand on a wall area he last remembered torn apart by and explosion. It felt smooth and cold under his digits, sturdy. Lifeless. The tentative smile he had worn, thinking that at least it wouldn't hurt his friend anymore, turned into a grimace as he remembered that Omega might never ever feel the difference now.

The quantities of energon that would be necessary to bring him fully online would have fed a whole city for a decacycle. Ratchet was no expert on energon production but he knew enough about the difficulties faced by energon farms and mines on the various colonies of the Commonwealth to realized that, with the feeding of the population coming first, the Space Bridges nexus coming second and the various new projects of the Ministry of Sciences coming third, it was unlikely the Elite Guard would gather enough energon for the onlining of a Sentinel before thousands of stellar cycles.

It was so unfair, Ratchet thought bitterly. Omega had given up so much for the Autobot Cause without ever being given a choice; shouldn’t he be rewarded in the end, with a quiet life to learn and grow like any other sentient being?

What made the situation palatable for the medic was that Ultra Magnus was stuck in the same situation, so to speak. Sure, the Steelhaven had been given priority when the plans for the reconstruction of the Autobot space float had been acted, but Sigma Supreme was just as locked in stasis as his ‘brother’. And if there was something Ratchet could grant Ultra Magnus and grudgingly respect him for, it was that once he had laid the rules, he never broke them for his own personal profit. He wouldn’t prioritize bringing Sigma Supreme back online over Omega Supreme.

“For the good it does,” Ratchet muttered to himself as he dodged down a narrower corridor. The Spark Chamber wasn’t far now. The medic looked around and listened for a long moment, making sure no one may have followed him. Strake’s team was professional and they respected his privacy, but war had taught Ratchet to be wary of everyone, even his own side.

Satisfied that nothing sounded or looked amiss, he passed the door, making sure to lock it down behind him before walking over to the console. The Spark Chamber was wide open, as usual, and Ratchet felt his usual pang of sadness at seeing it near empty, just a flicker of light playing on the wall from time to time when one looked long enough inside. “I’m so sorry, my friend,” he murmured as usual – there was hardly a visit where he didn’t utter those words or a variation of them. “Someday, I’ll make right by you. I promise,” he vowed (again). “Now, let’s see what I can do for you today.”

Sitting in front of the console, he turned up the screen and as many systems as he could, optics focused on the screen as datas scrolled down – and dozens of error messages as well. “Hmph. Looks like the last patch I vowed in your system didn’t fully hold,” he commented aloud. Even if Omega couldn’t hear him, he had taken the habit to always speak to him as if he could hear him. It made the medic feel better and made the silence less oppressing. One day, he’d get an answer, he thought as his digits pressed various keys and he stopped on various code sections for a close up. Time to continue his secret/not so secret job.

Physically repairing Omega Supreme was one thing; making sure his systems actually worked up to what they had been was another. When Ratchet had been forced to place the Sentinel under modified stasis, he had been running against time, knowing Omega was fading faster than he could work. While he had managed to do it in the end, his work had been rushed – and several of Omega’s systems bore the brunt of it, much to his shame.

It wasn’t only because he wanted to stay close to the mech he had failed that Ratchet came solar cycle after solar cycle in this room, when his schedule allowed it. No, if he did, it was also because here, he could start fixing his mistakes. Patiently, ever so patiently, Ratchet worked his way through each code line of the Omega Sentinel, fixing damaged sequences; here’s one to make the lifts work, here is one for the doors, there are lines for the cannons, there one for the weapon system, here again one for the fire suppression emergency system, and yet another for the launching of the emergency shuttles…

Some of it, he had had to wait out until Strake fixed what was physically wrong; the rest, which added to the difficulty. But Ratchet was content, knowing that once he was down, the code lines were smoothly integrated back into the network.

Nobody could even fault him for that, not even Ultra Magnus; after all, Ratchet was ready to argue, he was just doing his duty as a crew member, helping to fix his ship. And better for him to dig into the systems than a random, unknown technician who knew nothing about the truth behind the Orion, Ratchet reminded himself.

There were talks of installing one of the new Teletraan AI onboard, from what Strake had told him – not that the foreman knew much about it; his domain was the physical, not the navigation systems. Ratchet wasn’t fond of the idea, but if he could make sure the AI wouldn’t interfere with Omega’s freewill or impacted his mobility, he wouldn’t oppose the installation either. “We need to keep the cover,” he reminded himself aloud. “So, my friend, how about we fix up the code for the grapples today? It’s a terrible mess, you’d be ashamed of it…”

He had little time before him; better to make the best of it while he still could.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Without surprise, Frack hadn’t come back for his appointment with Ratchet, though apparently Ambulon saw him during his own shift.

“The patches are taking well,” the medic with the spotty paintjob had assured his colleague as they shared a cube of warm oil in the clinic’s small kitchen/rest area. “The MeChamidya will soon be an old story. I admit, however, that I worry he’ll pick something else at some point; his firewalls don’t seem very solid and I suspect there is something wrong with his automatic upgrades. Hopefully, that job he picked as a Waste Disposal technician should keep him out of prostitution for the foreseeable future.”

“You assume his mechfriend will not persuade him from the contrary,” Ratchet had replied grimly, and Ambulon’s hopes had been deflated. The other medic had been working in the Dead Ends long enough as well to know how those situations usually ended. Still, he was keeping a part of naivety that Ratchet could only envy him. “But perhaps you’re right, and perhaps this time it’ll stick.”

And perhaps pig-o-trons would learn to fly as high as Seekers, Ratchet mentally added to himself as he made his way through the corridors of Cybertron Central Infirmary. He longed to see Arcee’s face.

The day had been a hard one; in addition to the usual unpleasantness of having to flush someone’s systems full of hallucinogenic substances or illegal boosters with nasty side-effects (they had had to tackle down that one mech and strap him down with the help of several patients, some of which had taken hits Ratchet had dutifully fixed, excusing himself for the disagreement again and again), a brawl had started in the street between a group of Autotroopers on patrol (the frag had they been doing here?) and a bunch of drunk ‘bots (who shouldn’t have been here either, but hey, at least it was their home district).

Said brawl had spread, drawing semi-innocent bystanders in (Ratchet didn’t consider drug dealers innocent the slightest, and their clients were just idiots) and more Autotroopers as they called in reinforcements. In the end, the fight had spilt to the clinic’s doorstep. Ratchet and Ambulon, both on duty at the time, had ended all scheduled appointments to rush outside and start assisting the injured, as per their duty as medics – and had almost ended up arrested for their trouble thank to some Troopers being very dense and obtuse. Luckily, their CO hadn’t been an idiot, just a very tough and sarcastic lady who had allowed to finish fortune repairs on the mechs apprehended before shipping them away to the Stockades for detention until a judge decided what to do with them.

The Dead Ends were going to be either marginally calmer in the next couple of solar cycles… or they were going to turn into a powder keg waiting to explode. Especially, Ratchet thought grimly, if some of the mechs arrested worked for Thunderhoof. Sleazy slagger didn’t like it when Autotroopers butted their head in his business and the rumor said he had plenty of weapons caches to his name. Of course, it was only rumors; Thunderhoof would loudly claim he was being unjustly accused and stigmatized due to his past as a former Decepticon soldier and that he was an honest businessmech nowadays.

Gullible ‘bots might be swallowing it, but not Ratchet. And not the Autotroopers either, but without proof of any criminal activities, they had never been able to arrest him and lock him up. A pity.

No matter the way things were going to settle in the Dead Ends, peacefully or in another brawl, Ratchet didn’t think he’d be able to peacefully recharge for the next decacycle, if not longer. Oh, he wasn’t too worried about himself; the Dead Ends inhabitants seldom dared to brutalize a medic, if only because you never knew when you’d be needing him next. However, being considered more or less off limit when it came to retribution wouldn’t protect the medics or the clinic from stray shots – and plenty of people could still get hurt.

Sometimes, Ratchet wished he could forget about the world and just… rest. Moments like that almost made him wish for a coma like Arcee’s – but he immediately deleted the thought, horrified by his callousness; what was happening to the pink femme was not something one ought to wish for.

“I really must be getting tired,” he sighed to himself as he pushed the door to Arcee’s ward and walked to her bed. “Hello, Arcee. I…”

He stopped speaking, words choking in his vocalize as he took sight of the femme he had been taking care of for so long as he started to shake. What… what was happening here?! Who had opened her helmet like that? What were those cables doing her?! They snaked around her head, plugged into ports that had been revealed by slide-aside armor. It reminded Ratchet so much of the open-processor surgery which had put her in the coma to begin with that the medic briefly falter, feeling like he was going to purge as the world spun and swayed around him.

A cold rage started to rise inside his Spark. Who? Who had dared to experiment on her?! He was going to wrangle their Spark out of their casing and throw their frame into a trash compactor!

He hadn’t even realized he had moved and that his servos were locking themselves around the cables to pull them out – a stupid rookie mistake, he was a medic, Ratchet should have known better than that, should have first looked how those cables were linked and to what, should have investigated what they were supposed to do, but he was so **angry** \-- and it was only a shout behind him that stopped him.

“What are you doing?! Nooooooo!!! Nonononono, you mustn’t touch that! The download isn’t completed, that could put the system in jeopardy!”

Ratchet recognized the wheeling sound before he recognized the speaker; as such, it came as no surprise when Kaput rolled from behind him and to the other side of Arcee’s berth, looking fretful, hands wriggling together while he swayed back on forth on his wheel.

“Kaput,” he said flatly. “What the frag do you think you’re doing to that femme?”

Normally, Ratchet rather liked Kaput. He was a nervous ‘bot who didn’t have much of a spine when it came to conflict situations, but he was also a competent medic… most of the time. He didn’t take unnecessary risks, often asked his colleagues’ opinions on tricky cases, tended to be a bit whiny when heads butted,… But he had a good Spark, and he took impeccable care of the patients in the long term recovery care.

Until today at least. Now, the only emotion Ratchet could muster toward the other mech was fury.

It must have showed on his face because Kaput yelped and rolled back, hands up in surrender. “It’s not what you think!” he managed to squeak out.

“Oh? And what do you think **I** think, Kaput?” Ratchet asked, dental plates gritting. “Funny, from where I’m looking, it looks dangerously like an unauthorized procedure. And I know it’d be unauthorized, Kaput, because even if I’m not down as Arcee’s Amica or next of kin or anything, I happen to read her files often to see how you are treating her here.” Which wasn’t technically legal, as he wasn’t her doctor, but Ratchet had been able to get a few favors in exchange for shutting up on WHY an open-processor surgery had been necessary on her in the first place. Ultra Magnus and Highbrow hadn’t been impressed; Ratchet had stood his ground.

Kaput fidgeted. “Well, yes, perhaps it’s not exactly officially authorized, but I can swear I have the informal authorizations from the higher up for experimental treatments and since it was looking promising on other patients, I had thought perhaps with your lady friend it could…”

“Kaput. What are you doing to her?” Ratchet cut in forcefully, knowing the other mech would go on a roll if he allowed him to talk. Kaput blinked.

“I’m only trying to do the same thing I did for the other patients in the ward, Ratchet,” the other medic explained with a whine. “It’s not dangerous, I swear, and we have obtained very good results already in the Praxus and Kaon’s General Infirmaries – okay, perhaps the patients didn’t wake up, exactly, but their processors’ activity climbed up by a margin of 15% when it had stayed unchanged for hundred of vorns beforehand, so I thought perhaps we could try it here, it isn’t like it would hurt them, you know, and…”

Ratchet’s optics ridges rose. “Kaput, calm down,” he ordered coldly. “Simple words, okay. What is she hooked up to? What are you trying to do to her?”

Kaput blinked. “I’m trying to connect her processor with the Seiberutopia Tales Online servers, Ratchet; I told you that, didn’t I?”

“No you didn’t,” Ratchet replied automatically before his jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, what? You’re trying to… connect a coma patient to a video game?” He couldn’t have heard that right, surely not. But Kaput was nodding vigorously; worse, he was even beaming.

“Yes! It’s exactly that! And it’s working too; or at least it has worked so far on every patient here. I admit, we had a few problems with Inkhorn over there,” he gestured toward a massive mech, a transport-capable vehicle if Ratchet had to judge, “but that was mostly because he had non-standard helm modifications the data-holder cube didn’t know what to do about first. In the end, it turned into two horns for him, you see them?”

No, Ratchet didn’t see, but he was seeing other things now. The visor which hadn’t been there before on a patient, an earphone he didn’t known on another, a headphone on a third and a fourth,…

He lowered his gaze on Arcee again, on those ugly cables which made him feel fright. All of that… for a game? When she wasn’t even conscious?

“Kaput… What the Pit is going on here?” Ratchet asked, unnerved.

The one-wheeler tapped his digits together nervously. “Well, you see, that’s kinda a long… short story. You, uh, mind coming to my office so we can talk about it?”

Ratchet took a look at Arcee, then at the other patients. His Spark wavered. “… Lead the way. And I hope for you it’s a damn good explanation,” he warned the other mech.


	9. Origins. Ratchet 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein two medics have a discussion on video games and comatose patients and Ratchet decides to employ his newly gained knowledge to reactivate an old friend...

“So… a video game?”

Kaput’s office was very cramped, making Ratchet wonder if it hadn’t been a cupboard for medical equipment before it was reconverted. The monowheeler had prepared them tea with an antique boiler the like of which Ratchet hadn’t seen since he had been a newly Protoformed mech. A cup, still full, was getting cold in front of Ratchet while Kaput, either to avoid starting a discussion he didn’t want to have or because he wanted to really savor his tea, was drinking from his own cup in little sips, silent. His hands were shaking though, letting Ratchet know the first option was the most likely.

“Yes, a video game,” the monowheeler finally replied as Ratchet continued to stare at him intensely, which unnerved him. “I admit, it’s a controversial idea among you estimated colleagues. Pharma dismissed it immediately when I tried to present it to the Infirmary’s councilmembers, but Remedy was intrigued and it was really his opinion that mattered in the end…”

“Kaput, you’re starting to babble,” Ratchet warned him, making Kaput jolt and spill some of tea with a swear. “Here,” the old mech handed him a rag out of his subspace pocket, mind spinning while Kaput cleaned up the spilled liquid. Pharma being against new therapies wasn’t a surprise for him; he was a good medic, but he was also very set in his way and wary of anything that could potentially tarnish his reputation as a serious practitioner. Oh, Ratchet could understand why. While he had immediately joined the Autobots when the War started, Pharma was a flight frame; he had faced a lot of discrimination to get where he was now and he had no intention to commit the slightest mistake. So yeah, Ratchet wasn’t surprised Pharma had immediately said ‘no’ to the idea of hooking up coma patients to a video game servers.

But Remedy had pronounced himself in favor and that… that was worthy of a second glance at the project. When Cybertronian thought of ancients mechs, they first pictured Alpha Trion, but Remedy was a close second in popular imagination. He probably wasn’t THAT old, but he was already ancient by the time a young Ratchet had sat in the amphitheaters of Protihex Medical Mechanisms University, where the old mech was teaching the newer generations of medics. All the ‘bots who counted in the profession had taken lessons under Remedy. Ratchet could honestly say he had been the best teacher he ever had had, a role model he had actively wished to follow.

Up to a certain point anyway.

Remedy was so now old he wasn’t an active practitioner anymore; his hands had started to lock up thousands of stellar cycles ago, rendering him unable to practice surgery and forcing to step back from active medicine entirely. However, he hadn’t dropped the medical field entirely; Remedy kept a role as a consultant to any who wished his advices and a role as an administrator of the Cybertron Central Infirmary. His reputation was such Remedy still remained THE most famous medic of Cybertron and the one whose expertise they all bowed to in the end.

If he thought there was merit in Kaput’s strange idea, then…

“Explain to me since the beginning, again. Please,” Ratchet, finally reaching for the tea cup and taking a sip to show his good faith and willingness to listen. He tried not to grimace – cold tea was just not his thing and the brew Kaput had selected by too sweet for his taste.

“Right, right,” Kaput nodded, putting his own cup down and clapping his hands. “I’m sorry, it’s possible I end up making a few digressions along the way so don’t hesitate to tell me, alright?”

“Oh, trust me, I will,” Ratchet replied dryly. “Now, where did you get that idea?”

Kaput rubbed the back of his helm. “Ah, that. Well, you see, last stellar cycle, I went back to Protihex Medical Mechanisms for a conference – it was about the survival of long-thought eradicated virus on the planets in the northern part of the Commonwealth, interesting of course but the lecturer had a voice so soporific, I would have fallen asleep if not for…” Ratchet coughed and Kaput blinked in answer. “And never mind. Anyway, while I was there, I decided to visit an old friend – I don’t think you ever heard of Rest-Q? No? A pity, he’s a great mech, you know, a really great mech – who decided to stay at Medical Mechanisms as a searcher,” he added quickly under Ratchet’s quailing look. “His last field of study was the signals emitted by mechs’ CPU while they were in the midst of recharge, in order to get a better understanding of the patterns it follows during the different types of recharge – restful, agitated, by fits,… -- in order try and duplicate the effects of the most peaceful ones to help patients with sleeping troubles. You know how many Autobots still have troubled times following the end of the War…”

“Yes,” Ratchet nodded curtly. “I do know.” At least a third of the mechs who had turned to drugs in the Dead Ends had done so because of war-related trauma. Even Ratchet sometimes had troubled nights, where he woke up and searched for a strong drink… “And your friend really thinks it can work?” Duplicating a personal signal was hard enough, but to try to find one applicable to every type of frame existing…

Kaput nibbled on his lower lip. “There are merits in those researches,” he finally said, “but I’m not sure on their eventual application. It is worth a try, however, don’t you think? But wherever it’ll work or not, I got interested by some of the experiments Rest-Q was leading in order to find what could calm a mech so his EM field and CPU’s patterns naturally aligned themselves on a ‘sane baseline’ he had come up with through the use of external stimuli. That, I found very interesting, personally,” he added, putting his chin in his hands and his elbows on the table.

“Hmm,” Ratchet nodded to himself. He had followed a few classes on a similar subject once upon a time. “What did he use?”

“Music, mostly,” Kaput confided. “At least the beginning. It does work for some mechs, but I didn’t find the results very significant. Room temperatures, too, in some cases. But what I found the most interesting was the use of video games during the recharge period. You see, part of the inability some mechs have to enjoy a good recharge is that their CPU is naturally too high-strung and can’t turn off certain functions in order to let their frame rest.”

That, Ratchet already knew; he had seen many patients with the same problem.

Slowly, he started to tap his fingers on the table, thinking. Ratchet knew next to nothing of video games, having never been a player himself, unlike several of his fellow students back in Medical Mechanisms. Oh, he knew they came in different styles and shapes, from the ones using hand-controllers (not adapted to every kind of servos, which made them very unpopular) to the arcade ones that allowed you to plug in and control the characters on the screen and, of course, the newer models, the ones that had developed alongside the RPG style many young ‘bots favored those days, where the game happened… in your head…

Ratchet’s optic ridges furrowed as he thought it over.

“So… hooking up to a game during their period of recharge allows those higher functions to find a derivative while the rest of the functions turn down and allow for rest?” he said aloud.

Kaput nodded eagerly. “That’s right! And it got me thinking about our coma patients. Their CPU… they’re still functional. Oh, perhaps not up to one hundred percent, but it’s been proved their higher functions are working, since their frames continue to run smoothly even when they’re not hooked up to machines,” Kaput added with a frown of his own. “The damaged connections between CPU and motor relays and the ones in the pathways the datas use to command the frame’s onlining are the true roots of most of our problems, as we have yet to find a way to repair them effectively.”

“Don’t I know that,” Ratchet mumbled. For the most part, those connections could only be repaired by the patient’s own self-repairs systems and… it wasn’t perfectly reliable, for a lot of the self-repairs systems were commanded by the general functions of the CPU. If those functions weren’t working, then the self-repairs couldn’t kick in.

One of the many reasons Arcee wasn’t waking up…

Kaput coughed. “So, I went thinking: ‘Hey, if hooking up on a game allows a mech to rest by diverting his higher-level functions so they can, what if hooking up to a game **simulated** the functions of a coma patient? I know, it sounds crazy, but I thought it was worth a try. So I asked around to the friends and next of kin of my patients to see if perhaps I could try an experiment with one of them. I didn’t have much success at first, but a Conjunx eventually agreed down in Kaon and, well, I worked up from there.”

Ratchet nodded slowly. “And you said you obtained results, right? What was it again, an increase of 15% in cerebral activity?” It may not have sounded like much, but on coma patients? That was a very significant and miraculous progression.

“On average,” Kaput confirmed. “The higher case we recorded was up to 27% -- and while it didn’t allow him to wake up, we noticed a slight boost in his self-repairs which leave us hopefully that, perhaps, eventually…” he trailed off.

“I don’t believe in such miracles, Kaput,” Ratchet dismissed, but inside he felt weird, somewhere between elated, scared and hopeful.

“Miracles or not, I know what we have. And,” he added, looking wistful, “I don’t think I saw anyone cry as hard as that femme when she managed to talk with her Amica…”

Ratchet startled. “I thought you said no one had woken up?!” he shouted, rising from his seat. Kaput jolted and almost fell out of his seat, looking at Ratchet with wide optics.

“Because they didn’t, Ratchet. She just happened to see her Amica in the game; that’s how we know it’s working, that the downloads and linking are doing fine. They’re not awake here, but they’re fully conscious and active in S.T.O. We even managed to convince the company to come up with a special tutorial to explain to the patients newly hooked up to the game where they were and how to use the commands, how to pick a character class, how to relay information with Mails to the game developers if they had issues,…” Kaput listed off on his fingers.

Ratchet wasn’t listening to him anymore; all he could hear and think about were the words ‘they are fully conscious and active in S.T.O.’.

“And that’s what you were doing to Arcee?” he asked in a faint voice.

Kaput stopped talking to stare at him. “Uh, yeah, that’s the idea. We were almost finished doing the necessary link-up between her frame and the main servers. Right now, it must be over and she may very well have starting moving around in the game. We were going to install a new monitoring device to measure up her CPU activity and see how well she’s taking to it. We got a handful of patients for whom, sadly, we had no concrete results, but…”

Ratchet tuned him out again. He imagined Arcee awake and moving, even if it was only in a fictive universe. Would the game be able to reverse the damages done to her memory banks? He dared not hope so but perhaps…? And even if it didn’t, then at least she would have a life back, a life where she could decide to do whatever she wished.

… If he went up and got a copy of the game for himself, would he be able to see her, to talk to her as well? To express how sorry he was? To atone for his mistakes? And if Kaput’s system could work with coma patients, what if it could also work for…?

“Ratchet? You’re feeling alright here? You look like you got struck by lightning,” Kaput asked worriedly, waving his hand in front of his fellow medic’s optics to try and get his attention.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Ratchet replied in a toneless voice, not even acknowledging the waving. “Just a stray thought.” His optics became far more focused at once and he pushed Kaput’s hand asides. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “But you got me curious. How do your system work exactly, and can it be used with every type of coma patient? What about mechs in forced stasis? Would they be able to use it as well?”

“Hum,” Kaput stroked his chin. “I admit I haven’t considered the idea yet, so I’m not sure wherever it’d be viable or not. Stasis implies that the frame has entirely shutdown, so CPU activity is down as well. But perhaps, with some modifications…?” He shook his head. “But let’s start at the beginning, shall we? The system in itself is very simple, you see. First, you need to…”

Ratchet listened and nodded along, making an audio record as he did so. He would probably need it later if his memory made him default. He felt shaken and vaguely hopeful.

Because, if such a system would work for Arcee… why couldn’t it also work for Omega Supreme?

*-*-*-*-*-*

The answer was, it could… with a lot of work, luck and favors called in.

It took the better of three stellar cycles, using all his free time, for Ratchet to be able to make it work – and it would probably had taken him forever if the War hadn’t allowed him to make a few friends. Once injured mechs who owned you their life often made a point of trying to pay what they consider to be their debts. Ratchet tended to refuse or suggest they verse shanix to charities instead but this time… It was for Omega, he kept reminding himself. Only for Omega.

His first action once he had left Kaput and double checked on Arcee had been to go home, drink himself into a stupor and ponder on his crazy idea as he laid on his berth, optics focused on the dirt-stained ceiling. Then he had flushed it out of his systems, connected to the Grid and started to gather information on that ‘Seiberutopia Tales Online’.

He… hadn’t exactly been impressed. Call him of bad faith, but even if he could praise young ‘bots overactive imagination and the way they kept making up whole worlds, he still considered video games as a futile way to occupy one’s time.

Or perhaps it was just the whole ‘magic’ concept Ratchet had a hard time connecting with. It was so pointless and illogical in its very conception, it just made him scoff.

But he had persevered, going through forum after forum, reading the comments of players, tracking down the official news sources and the FAQ until he had build up a good understanding of the game mechanisms, then of the way the linkup between CPU and game worked. It had been a trial in itself, because of course the society producing the game would consider it a fabrication secret!

Ratchet had bend the truth a little and called them, presenting himself as a medic doing researches on the link between games and patients’ progresses, going so far as to drop Kaput and Remedy’s names in the conversation. After that, they had been far more accommodating and provided him all the documents he had needed (after making sign a confidentiality clause, of course, but Ratchet hadn’t cared; it wasn’t as if he had been planning to divulge anything to anyone, anyway).

The reading had been informative at least. Ratchet had spent long megacycles going through each bit of the text, underlining or highlighting every passage of interest, recutting them together again and again until he had compiled the datas he wanted in a satisfactory manner.

For all he didn’t care about the games themselves, Ratchet had felt a grudging respect rise up for the game developers themselves. Coming together with a universal linkup system working for every type of Cybertronian had to have been like walking through the Pit; no wonder they kept a tight lid on game datas and servers!

Once he had known what to look for, Ratchet had started to buy copies of the games to work on. He had needed to take a few apart in order to familiarize himself with every pieces and how they interacted with each other and with a mech’s frame. One… may or may not have blown up in his face, not that he would ever admit it. But once more, he had managed to find what he was seeking and increase his understanding of the game system itself.

Which had made him realize that, in its actual state, the game wouldn’t be compatible with Omega Supreme’s own systems, even if he hadn’t been in stasis.

Ratchet had hit a very rough patch once he discovered that fact. Empty cubes had piled up in his apartment and he had stopped showing at the clinic for the best part of a decacycle, until Ambulon showed on his doorstep, ready to rip apart the door to get in and check on him. After that, things remained a bit blurry in Ratchet’s processor even today. What he knew was that, by some point, he had found himself sitting next to Ambulon, talking about hypothetical applications of gaming hookups on systems in stasis.

“Your problem, Ratchet, is that you never consider asking for help when you hit a roadblock,” Ambulon had commented. “Sometimes, you need to take a step back and have a brainstorm with someone not as involved as you. So, share with the class, doctor; I’m listening.”

Ambulon had been right, of course. Ratchet had been forced to keep things vague, but nonetheless he had said enough on his researches for the younger medic to ask questions on the leads he had followed and the ones he had previously discarded, offering theories of his own Ratchet had either shot down or carefully noted down for further researches.

“One of the problems you may be facing in the future is the size of the CPU and the normal level of activity of your patient,” Ambulon had hummed. “The game systems are supposed to be adaptable to every kind of frame, but you seem to be talking about a very big ‘bot, probably of the likes of a warframe, yeah?” Ratchet hadn’t answered, but Ambulon had continued. Better let Ambulon think it was about a Decepticon patient than the truth. “I know they had to make special custom modifications for Decepticon frames, because some of them are too out of scale to make it work otherwise.”

“I don’t think it would cut it, Ambulon.”

“Perhaps not,” the other medic had nodded. “But have you considered making the game linkup pass by several copies at once? Divide and conquer, Ratchet, divide and conquer. If you divide the CPU’s activities into several sections, then make them pass through several game systems at the same time, you can put a mech’s consciousness in the game without ill effect. At least in theory, it could work.”

And he had been right, Ratchet had realized later one, after researching the subject. It was a procedure which had already been used on variations of open-processors surgeries in which they had needed the patient to be conscientious in order to guide the reparations in delicate damaged sections.

In secret, Ratchet had started to gather heads. Not real ones, mind you, but heads from medical dummies they used in Medical Mechanisms, hospitals and clinics for demonstrations and surgical training. Inside their helm, you could find blank processors that could do nicely to hold Omega’s data simultaneously, provided he worked up on a good way to link them all together and make them run at the same speed – which had been a real mind scratcher, but one he had finally managed to pierce through after several unfortunate tries.

The smell of the grilled circuits was forever imprinted in his memories, as well as what could have happened with Omega’s processor if he had tried it directly. Brr. As if he had needed more reasons to have nightmares!

Then there has been the latest step in his plan: managing to bring Omega sufficiently online to be able to connect him to the game servers through the use of the dummies.

And that’s when Ratchet may have hit his biggest roadblock yet.

The problem was that, for Omega to be able to be brought online, he needed enough energon in his systems to make them run, and enough power to reignite his Spark to the point of getting out of the stasis. And sadly, it was practically impossible to do while staying discreet.

Oh, perhaps he could have walked up to Ultra Magnus and the Ministry of Sciences, knocked at the door with a big grin and asked for enough energon and material to bring back online a living weapon so he could hook him up on a game, but Ratchet seriously doubted his request would be greeted by amusement, even less so by a positive answer.

And still, he had searched – and called in his contacts, one per one, at suitably long intervals as to not raise suspicions, asking for energon, for oil, for a specific tool, for stocks of cabling, for pipes, for pumps, for even more energon stocks. If someone noticed a pattern, they wisely choose to shut up. Most mechs seemed to think Ratchet was asking for the Dead Ends clinic – which was technically true, since he made a point of reversing a good portion of the ‘donations’ to the clinic’s funds. Suffice to say, many ‘bots who had been near starving at the time had been very grateful for the energon boon.

And if most of it ended up secreted on the Orion in the dead of the night, when Strake and his team had left the worksite, well, who could (or would) say?

Truthfully, Ratchet hadn’t thought he’d manage to get so far and it still amazed him that he did. Either Intelligence was having a slow vorn or they had decided that whatever Ratchet was doing was not dangerous or unrealizable.

Not dangerous, he would give them that. Unrealizable… not completely.

Not once it had finally dawned on Ratchet he was looking at the problem on the wrong end.

The medic had first been set up on bringing Omega out of stasis at peak condition, with his full capacities. But clearly, that wasn’t possible. So… why not just bring his _consciousness_ out of stasis? In the end, what truly matter was for Omega’s processor to be working, not his body. And once he had realized that, things had become much easier to work through for Ratchet.

It pained him, of course, to let Omega paralyzed, but in the absence of the necessary means to fully online his systems…

“And once he’ll be in the game, he’ll be able to walk as he sees fit,” Ratchet consoled himself as he finished his final preparations. “Primus, let it work…”

The room surrounding the Spark Chamber had changed aspect since Ratchet had started his ‘experiments’. Old battered benches had been lined against the walls, each supporting six to eight dummies heads. After some consideration, Ratchet had estimated that at least two dozens would be necessary to filter Omega’s processor activity, and he had planned on a dozen more if it proved insufficient. Cables linked those head together but also to various monitors and plugs hidden in the walls as well as to the Spark chamber itself. Said Spark Chamber was closed now while pipes were leading large quantities of energon straight inside its systems, alimenting the Spark Altar. When Ratchet had closed the door, the prongs had started to light up and send out sparks of energy. Normally, once they had reached a sufficient level of power, they would act like a ‘magnet’ that would bring up to them all that remained of Omega’s Spark Energy still lingering in the room and allow a proper Spark to reform, thus bringing him partly out of stasis.

It wouldn’t be much longer now, Ratchet kept repeating to himself as he monitored the process with a small camera, digits lingering over the keyboard, ready to communicate with the gently giant he called a friend.

Omega’s vocalizer was, regretfully, one of the systems Ratchet had to scratch up as non-essential for the reanimation process. However, Omega and him would still be able to communicate using the monitors, so hopefully it’d be enough for Ratchet to explain what would be happening now.

“Soon. Very soon.” The old medic rubbed at the side of his helm, where he had already installed his own copy of the S.T.O. linkup. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure he liked the sensation. Once Omega was online, he’d launch himself with him. According to fans’ explanations Ratchet had gathered, if two persons chose the same type of class and connected around the same time, they would both popup in the game at the same place. He hoped it was true…

There was an ominous sound in the closed Spark chamber. Ratchet’s head turned so fast he felt one of his neck cables ready to snap. For a moment, he feared the worse… then the diodes lighted up, indicating the systems were working right and his shoulders sagged in relief. “I did it,” he said in shock. “I really did it!”

Turning back to the monitor, he started to type as fast as he could.

|| Omega? Can you hear me, Omega? ||

|| … ||

|| … ||

|| Omega? It’s me, Ratchet. Can you hear me? ||

|| Rat… chet? ||

The medic’s Spark surged in happiness. || Yes, it’s me. I’m here. ||

|| Ratchet. I… do… no… understand. I… can’t see. I… can’t… move. I… can’t… hear? ||

|| You’ve be gravely injured, my friend. A lot of your systems aren’t back online. Can you feel my messages well? ||

For Omega felt more than he heard, the messages typed on the keyboard being send as an electrical impulsion tailored on the optical code in use in the Elite Guard. It wasn’t the best, but it worked, Ratchet reassured himself.

|| I… do not… understand, Ratchet. Where are… the Decepticons? ||

Of course it’d be the last thing he remembered, Ratchet sighed.

|| Long gone, my friend. You defeated them. But you were so seriously injured I had to put you under. ||

|| Under… what? ||

|| I meant to say ‘in stasis’, so you wouldn’t die. You’re still partly in stasis, Omega. That’s why your systems aren’t working as you know them; why you can see or move or hear. Would you like me to hook up a camera so you can see me? ||

He should have thought of that a long time ago! Of course Omega would be upset, of course he would need a limited vision to reassure himself! Tomorrow, Ratchet swore, tomorrow he would bring in another camera and find a way to make it work with the cables already in place.

|| Yes. Can you… repair me… Ratchet? ||

|| … ||

|| Ratchet? ||

|| I can’t repair you more alone, Omega. I’m sorry. ||

There was long moment during which no new message popped up and Ratchet grew worried.

|| Omega? Can you still hear me? ||

|| Yes, Ratchet. ||

|| Ratchet? If you can’t… repair me… what can I… do? I can’t… protect you… like that. ||

|| The war is over, Omega. You don’t need to protect me anymore. ||

|| But without war… What can I… do? ||

|| Live, Omega. Have fun. Meet new mechs who can become your friends. Learn more about our planet. ||

|| How? If I… can’t move. Can’t see. Can’t… speak? ||

|| There might be a way, Omega. Do you remember me telling about what a game was? You were watching Eta Supreme and Hot Spot Major down in the repair bay. Hot Spot Major had brought a ball bigger than him he kept pushing into Eta’s hand, and Eta kept flicking in away with his finger. ||

|| I… remember. ||

“Good,” Ratchet murmured aloud. Omega hadn’t asked for a proof of identity, but if he ever needed any, there it was. Only a few Supremes mentors had witness the event. Hot Spot Major had been a good ‘bot and one of the most invested mentors in the project. He too had longed for more freedom for their charges and he had been crushed when Eta had been destroyed in the Battle for Iacon. Had his crew not dragged him out forcefully, he would have gone down with him. Ratchet had never seen him again after the official celebrations for the new peace. Wherever he was, Ratchet hoped he was okay.

|| I explained you what a video game was, back then, didn’t I? ||

|| … You play… with a thing… in your hand… on a screen… where there are things… that aren’t real? ||

|| Close enough. Would you like to play a video game, Omega? ||

|| But I can’t move… or see. I can’t… hold the thing… or see the… screen? ||

|| It’s a special kind of video game, Omega. It’s going to happen in your head. In your head, you can see and walk and talk. And I’m going to play with you. ||

|| I do not understand, Ratchet. ||

Ah, his ‘speech’ was growing smoother, Ratchet noticed with satisfaction. Good, good. It showed his systems were recovering from any lingering lagging.

|| It’s alright. I’m going to explain everything to you as we go. First off, I’m going to connect you to the game. You mustn’t have fear, alright? You may feel a little weird but then you’ll be able to see. You’ll be in a place with a threshold. You understand that? ||

|| Yes, Ratchet.||

|| Good. Someone is going to ask you to choose a class. A class is what kind of character you want to play in a game. You’re going to say you want to be a Warrior, okay? ||

|| Yes, Ratchet. ||

Warrior wasn’t Ratchet’s preferred category for Omega, who could be so much more than a warrior in a game as well as in real life, but it was a class simple enough to use for a neophyte who had never played a game in his life – and that included Ratchet himself.

|| Good. The person speaking is going to ask you for a name; give yours, Omega. Then they may ask you what you want to look like. ||

|| Ratchet? ||

|| People don’t always like to play as they look, Omega. They like to pretend to be taller, or even smaller. ||

|| I could be smaller if they ask me, Ratchet? ||

Ratchet felt a small pang of sadness. He couldn’t judge Omega’s tone with words on a screen, but it was probably was somewhere between hopeful and longing. Omega had often wished to walk through Iacon with other ‘bots, but his size had always stopped him.

|| Yes, Omega, you could if you wanted to – in the game. Then once you’re done, you’re going to be… teleported… in a town. I want you to stay where you are in that town, okay? I’ll be coming to get you. ||

|| Yes, Ratchet. ||

|| Are you ready, Omega? || Ratchet asked, a hand over the button that would activate the game linkup for Omega.

|| Yes. ||

|| Let’s go. ||

Ratchet kept a wary optic out as the linkup started. The dummies head hummed in unison and the atmosphere grew hotter in a klik, but everything seemed to hold. Omega’s consciousness was now in Seiberutopia Tales Online.

And in a few moments, Ratchet would be right beside him. Plugging in the earphone, he allowed himself the widest smile he ever made as he reclined into his seat and let his vision dissolve in pixels…


	10. Origins. Ratchet 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet quickly finds out that a pair of Warriors isn't ideal to play S.T.O. Especially when one of them is kinda... trigger-happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> Here's the last segment of Ratchet's origins story; I hope you'll enjoy yourselves reading!

“Omega? That’s… you?”

Ratchet stared long and hard at the unassuming looking mech sitting on a bench, hands folded in his lap and waiting patiently for something… or someone. For a moment, he wondered if he didn’t have the wrong person, despite the proximity alert showing the player’s handle as ‘Omega’, but then the mech looked up at him and the recognition in his optics was all the confirmation the old medic needed.

“Ratchet!” Omega said, rising up and walking up to him with a comically serious expression. Ratchet could only stare harder because…

He was small. So very small. Sure, Ratchet had gathered Omega wished to be smaller than he normally was and he knew the game wouldn’t have an option for ‘Supremes’ in its size chart but even so, he hadn’t expected Omega’s game avatar to barely reach his chest – and he was being generous.

But the face was unmistakenly Omega’s. A little rounder, a little smoother, which made him look younger, and he was lacking his distinctive domed face-protector, but that was Omega. Ratchet’s hands shot forward and before he had fully realized what he was going, he had an armful of _tiny_ Omega pressed to his chest as he hugged him for dear life.

“Ratchet? What are you doing?” Omega asked curiously, head tilted in bemusement.

“Hugging you,” the medic replied gruffly, his hold becoming a little tighter as the knowledge he had made it work, that Omega was truly here, sunk in.

Omega’s face lighted. “Oh, like when you pressed yourself against my hand?” He hummed thoughtfully. “I think I like hugs, Ratchet.”

“I’m sure you do,” the medic said a choked laugh. It took all his willpower to finally let go of the smaller (smaller!) mech’s frame, and that was mostly because they were starting to get looks from passing players. “Well, look at you. All… small.” Oh, that was so lame, but he didn’t care.

Omega looked as if he had been chided. “Is that wrong? I listened to the voice, as you said, and I said I wanted smaller. Twice. Is that bad?”

“No, no, it’s perfect,” Ratchet replied hastily. “I was just surprised.” He smiled down at Omega. “I’m glad you listened. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find you – or that maybe I wouldn’t recognize you. Or you me,” he added as an afterthought.

Omega nodded solemnly. “You said to wait for you, so I waited. And why wouldn’t I have recognized you? You are Ratchet.”

The medic sighed, not knowing how to explain that maybe Ratchet had made his avatar look a bit younger than he really was, by a few thousands stellar cycles. But then again, Omega had no way of knowing; the process of aging was an unknown concept for him – or if it wasn’t, because Ratchet couldn’t honestly remember for the life of him if they had ever discussed the subject, then it probably hadn’t dawned on Omega that Ratchet might have gotten older. It wasn’t as if they had had a deep conversation before landing in that blasted game.

“I am Ratchet,” he just confirmed with a nod. “It’s good to see you, Omega.” He reached and squeezed his friend’s hand in his. “Did you try to look around yet?”

Omega just shook his head. “No, Ratchet. You said not to move, so I didn’t.”

“Right, right,” Ratchet mumbled. “Well, how about we start exploring this town? There got to be a tutorial quest somewhere for us to begin.”

“What’s a quest, Ratchet? And what is a tutorial?” He looked around. “The town is weird. It doesn’t look like Cybertron. Why?”

Ratchet just looked at the other mech fondly; questions, questions, questions. Omega had always been curious about the world around him, despite his simple programation (or in spite of, depending on how you felt about it). All the Supremes had been, in fact, and their mentors had always done their best to answer whatever interrogations they might have had. Oh, there had been a limit to what they had been able to share with them, imposed by the necessities of the war and the fact high command had needed the Sentinels to work with ethical or emotional qualms, but… well, they had to know about the Autobot Cause, didn’t they? Or about the cities and planets and population they were protecting, yes? And those lights in the distance, which city did they belong to? And those stars, what were they and how could they use their position to find their way back to Cybertron if their navigational computer was damaged?

Even Ultra Magnus had indulged Sigma’s curiosity, so it wasn’t as if he would have been able to have the higher ground in a discussion on teaching and morals.

So he walked alongside Omega, in the semi-crowded streets, doing in best to explain things to the increasingly more and more curious Omega Sentinel.

“A quest is like a mission; we find someone who gives us a mission, we do it, then we go back to him to say we’re done, and he’ll give us a reward. Why? Well, to thank us, I suppose, because we did something good for him… or for the city, I guess. I’m not fully sure how is work in this game. It’s called Seiberutopia Tales Online, Omega. Lots of ‘bots play it. No, I don’t know any other player yet; I’ve just started, just like you. I learned by going on forums. The aim of the game is… uh, actually, I’m not fully certain; some people say it’s to slay an ultimate evil, other that it’s to collect the best weapons and armors in the game, others still that it’s simply to have fun doing things you can’t do in the real world. No, Omega, we can’t go ‘slay the ultimate evil’! Why? Well, first because we haven’t gone through the tutorial yet. A tutorial is a part of the game made simpler so you can learn how to use the commands at your own rhythm and convenience, alright? And no, even once we’re done with the tutorial, we can’t go ‘slay the ultimate evil’ – because we don’t know where it is, for starter, and even if we knew, we certainly wouldn’t have the level yet! A level is… well, let’s see, if you finish a quest, you’re going to receive coins – money, Omega, coins are money, just like shanix – and you’re going to receive ‘Experience’. As you gain experience, you’re going to get stronger – and you’re going to change level, you understand? No, I actually don’t know what level you need to be in order to slay the ultimate evil,” Ratchet massaged his temples, eyeing Omega warily while the smaller mech was distracted by a flowerbed full of organic-styled plants he was fascinated by.

He was going to admit that Omega’s preoccupations with defeating… killing… slaying a perceived menace was slightly worrisome. Okay, a lot worrisome. But then again, it was Omega’s core programming, was it not? Omega’s main directives were to protect and to sacrifice himself if needed (something Ratchet would never, ever allow him to do if he could); to protect, you had to take down the threat as fast as possible, right? But even so, Ratchet couldn’t remember Omega being so intent… Perhaps Ratchet had made a mistake somewhere? Primus Almighty, he hoped not.

… Unless it was a leftover of Omega’s battle programming? Omega had been put in stasis while the Battle for Iacon finished raging, his weapons systems up and active, his battle programming running at its highest possible level, surrounded by enemies while trying to defend civilians and infrastructures, and focused on bringing down Decepticon ships and soldiers like the infamous Blackout, murderer of several of Omega’s ‘siblings’.

He hadn’t seemed too shaken or violent upon waking up, but… It was possible his battle programming hadn’t fully shut down before Ratchet initiated the transfer. The implications made Ratchet frowns and grimaces, because he couldn’t see a way to fix that. It was something only Omega could do for himself and the medic was unsure it’d be possible while they were in the game. They could run out on their own as Omega’s processors focused on other things, but it may take a lot of time. And he couldn’t take Omega out of the game to try and fix it immediately, because if he did he’d be forced to completely cut the system and Ratchet may not have enough power reserve to jumpstart it again. Let it run as it was now, sure, but to jumpstart it again in case of power cut…

It was a game, Ratchet forced himself to calm down as he repeated it again and again in his head. Just a game. If Omega showed himself a bit too aggressive, it would be of no consequences. And everyone needed to blow some steam off from time to time.

“Ratchet, what are those?” Omega asked as he tried to pick a flower, only for it to disappear instantly. “Why did it disappear, Ratchet?”

Back to answering questions time. Hopefully those ones would be simpler to handle.

“Those are flowers, Omega – organic plants you find on organics planets. No, not on Cybertron, or at least not in the wild, but I heard some people kept specimens in weather-controlled and airtight glasshouses. Why? Well, because they like them, I suppose. Yes, yes, they do look pretty… No, I don’t think you can pick one, unless it’s a quest objective? I have no idea if it is, we will have to find a quest giver to find out. There’ll be mechs or femmes avatar with a holographic ‘Quest’ glyph hanging above their head, Omega, so keep a look for them. Quest givers are AI controlled non-playing characters – those aren’t players at all, no; they will only have a few lines of pre-recorded dialogue like… see those two mechs there? They’re NPC. How we differentiate them from true players? It’s easy; just look above their heads. Normally, a NPC’s name and title is noted there when you wait a little. Plus, they don’t move like real players. They either stay in the same spot, or they follow a pre-recorded pathway so you can be sure of where to find them. No, they’re not quest givers if they don’t have the right glyph. Most are just there to give an illusion of life to the place; quest givers are rarer. There are probably many scattered around the town. The town is called Bordo Harbor. A harbor is a town built next to the sea. Yes, like the Cobalt and Rust Seas on Cybertron. We’ll probably see docks if we go this way. Yes, I agree, the buildings are nothing like on Cybertron, but that’s because the game programmers took cities on organic planets as models to build up their universe. Why? Well, because they wanted to have something exotic for players, I suppose… something new, something the people had never seen before, something from far away? Ah, here’s a quest giver. If we both talk to him, we’ll both have the quest. Oh no, no, it doesn’t matter; a quest giver can give the same quests to every person who comes up to him, because it’s what they’re programmed to do. Everyone has a chance to do the mission, see? Come on, Omega talk to him and then we’ll go find those MetalloMaize Flour’s bags in town, yeah? And… Omega? What are you looking at?”

“What are they doing, Ratchet?” the Supreme asked in wonder, pointing a digit toward two mechs sitting at the edge of a dock, a fishing rod in their hands.

“They’re fishing, Omega.” Ratched eyed them as well, looking between them and Omega’s face. “You would like to try?”

Omega nodded tentatively. “It look… peaceful. I can try?”

“You’d need to pick it as a job first, and we need to finish the tutorial before we can,” Ratchet replied. “So let’s go find those flour bags, okay? Remember what I told you? You’re searching for fabric bags that should be sparkling to let you know it’s a pickable item.”

“Like the one on the dock?” Omega asked.

“Exactly!” Ratchet beamed. “Now go pick it; that’ll be one crossed off in the quest’s subline.”

Ratchet wasn’t a teaching unit and he probably wouldn’t have been able to show the same patience to any other ‘bot but Omega, but he thought he handled the barrage of questions well – or as well as he could, considering he didn’t necessarily always know about what Omega asked him about. Good thing he had head on game details, or he’d have been utterly lost.

As it was, he was glad the first quests beginner players in Bordo Harbor were of the go-fetch-and-bring-back kind. It was simple, let them wander freely through the town for items (though the medic had a slightly harder time explaining to Omega what they were or why they couldn’t or couldn’t use them). “There, you see? It’s in your inventory. When you need it, you just take it from there and it’s going to heal you,” he explained when Omega asked him what was the purpose of the MetalloMaize Bread they had been given as reward.

Omega’s optic ridges furrowed. “I don’t understand how.”

“Beat me,” Ratchet shrugged, “Just a figure of speech!” he added quickly at Omega’s startled look. “I don’t know, I imagine it’s because labeling everything with a proper medicine name wasn’t attractive for players.”

That seemed to placate Omega’s interrogation for a moment.

Then they had started to get the tutorial quests for weapon use. And that when Ratchet started to really think the pair of them would have a problem.

“Perhaps I should have picked up the Archer,” he winced as Omega continued to hit the remains of the training dummies with the long sword he had picked up as the reward of their last ‘go and fetch’ quest before being send to the training field for instruction in how to use it. The single-minded attacks of Omega were starting to lead more and more weight to the medic’s suspicion about his protégé’s battle protocols. Not only that, but there was also something were startling into seeing Omega launch himself at the dummies to fight in close quarter when almost all of Omega’s weapons had been distance ones.

He didn’t think he liked it the slightest. A distance fighter might have been best, yes, he mused as he cut down a dummy of his own with a giant hammer, his own reward pick for the last quest. But distance fighters had more complicated base commands and without knowing how much Omega could handle upon a direct awakening from stasis, he had wanted to keep things simple.

Perhaps it had been a mistake.

But when Omega turned toward him and asked him if he had done good, he could only smile tentatively. “Well, the targets are destroyed,” he said carefully, “So I suppose it’s good. But you don’t need to hit them until there is nothing left, Omega.”

“Oh. Alright, Ratchet,” Omega replied after blinking. “What do we do now?”

“Now we valid the end of the training quest, and we’ll be able to get out of the town and explore the region’s map, then the rest of the game world, Omega,” Ratched said simply as he walked over the NPC standing in as a weapon master – he vaguely resembled a drill sergeant from Autoboot Camp, Ratchet thought privately. “But we’ll have to be careful about it. There’ll be enemies outside and we may not be well-equipped yet to fight them.”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Damnit, Omega!”

The small mech flinched, looking down at his pedes with a contrite look on his face. “I’m sorry Ratchet.”

The medic sighed and rubbed with forehead with his palm. He didn’t think he really had a headache, but it certainly felt like he should have gotten one. “I know you are,” he replied warily and even gave Omega a brief hug to reassure him that he wasn’t truly mad. “But you can’t continue like that, Omega. You must remember that we’re ill-equipped to take on multiple enemies at the same time, especially when they all have four or five more Levels than us,” he added more sternly. “There is a reason I told you not to leave the path.”

At least half a dozen times, Ratchet added mentally for himself while Omega kept repeating he was sorry. “Let’s go the inn, okay? I must have just enough money to buy us a dish to bring back our health bar up faster – and we’ll discuss what to do, okay.”

“Okay,” Omega replied meekly and followed Ratchet as they left the cemetery, their avatars restored to life the moment they passed the threshold.

That was the eighth time they were wiped out by a swarm of enemies accidentally picked up by Omega and, despite all the patience he wanted and had shown, Ratchet was starting to get on his last nerves.

Clearly, the system wasn’t working.

It was fully Omega’s fault, he reasoned as they installed themselves in the inn, Ratchet ordering them both a drink. Neither of them had much experience with gaming and it showed. However, whereas Ratchet could pick on the clues and strategize a course of action, Omega seemed completely impermeable to the idea that ‘Hack! Smash! Kill! Destroy!’ was NOT a good way to stay ‘alive’ in the game like it might have been in the middle of a battle of the War.

Omega didn’t fully understand level differences or aggro areas, nor that stopping to eat while the enemy still came at you wasn’t going to allow you to rise your health bar back to optimal.

He WAS trying, Ratchet thought desperately as he took a sip of the glass put in front of him – curiously, it even had a vague flavor, making him wonder how they had managed to pull that one – but it was becoming increasingly clear that a pair of Warriors without much gear, coins or healing items wasn’t going to get far.

And it was a vicious circle too; they needed to complete quests to get money and buy gears and healing items or at least to loot a fallen monster’s corpse before it dissolved, but they kept dying before they could, so whatever money they got from foraging ended paying for the damages to their present gear, thus pushing back the chance to buy better armors and better weapons that could deal more damages.

So either they had to come back to haunt Bordo Harbor’s area until Omega fully understood how to play the game… or they had to change strategy. The first option was easier, Ratchet mused, but how long would it take? And there weren’t many quests left in the area either – the downside of being a beginner area was that the programmers had reasoned players would wish to clear the zone quickly – so they wouldn’t be picking much experience here either.

And if he was honest with himself, Ratchet didn’t want to wait to leave the area. Because…

He wouldn’t find Arcee here.

He hadn’t decided to connect to this game only to have a way to bring Omega Supreme partially out of stasis, after all. He had also done so because he wanted a chance to see Arcee again. But since she had been connected in permanence since so long, she could be anywhere in the digital world – and most likely in an area for high-level players.

Ratchet had waited several stellar cycles for this chance, he knew he could handle a few more if needed… but not surprisingly, he was finding it hard to swallow.

Ratchet sighed as he finished the drink. He hadn’t wanted to do that, but it seemed he hadn’t much of a choice left at this point. “Omega? Can you wait for me here, please?” he asked his friend, who looked up at him as if he was a kicked Turbo-puppy. Frag, he really had expressive optics like that, Ratchet thought faintly.

“Ratchet? Is it the time you have to leave?” the Supreme asked, distraught. Ratchet had warned him several times that he would have to leave the game for more or less long periods because he had to go work on healing mechs, but that he would be back every time he was free. They had even picked up an area where to meet each time Ratchet reconnected; Omega just had to wait there and Ratchet would eventually be back.

“Not yet, no, though it’ll be soon now,” Ratchet shook his head. “But I need to do something. Wait for me, I’ll be right back,” he added with a smile as he opened the menu, hit the ‘Disconnect’ command and let his character fade from S.T.O.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Omega waited patiently. Had no point did he consider that Ratchet could have lied. He waited in the inn, in the exact same spot, with his half-finished drink in front of him. It was weird, being able to drink; normally, his refueling had always been done by massive pipes directly plugging in his tanks. It was funny, but it was also hard; he kept spilling the fluid on his chin, which was embarrassing – but Ratchet said it didn’t matter and he was smiling, so it was good, right?

He waited for a long moment before a familiar looking mech walked right back into the inn.

“Ratchet! Ratchet?” Omega greeted first in joy, then in confusion. Ratchet wasn’t wearing the same thing than before. Instead of the padded pauldrons and the chainmail shirt and the tabard, he was wrapped in a long fabric thing (a robe, Ratchet had said it was called when they had seen a player wearing one earlier as they explored the town) white with red edges. He didn’t have his sword anymore but a long staff in his hand.

“Finally back,” his friend sighed. “I swear, the price they charge for a double avatar…”

“Ratchet? Why did you change? Can I change too?” Omega asked curiously, a hand reaching out to touch the fabric thing hanging around Ratchet’s wrist. It was smooth. Nice.

“I’m afraid not, Omega.” Ratchet looked sorry to say it, but it was alright. Omega had only been curious. “As to why I changed, it’s because I created a new avatar to play with you. Now I’m going to be a Healer,” he explained.

“Like you are in the real world?”

Ratchet’s face twitched briefly. “Yeeesss, like I am in the real world. Except real healing doesn’t happen by ‘magic’,” he spat the word before calming down. “However, I think it’s best that I play Healer while you continue to play a Warrior. This way, we’ll face less risks of being wiped out and send to the cemetery.”

Omega bowed his head, a bit chagrined at the reminder he kept getting Ratchet fake-killed. That was wrong, very wrong. Omega could get fake-killed, but not Ratchet. Omega was supposed to sacrifice for the Autobots and for Ratchet; Ratchet wasn’t supposed to be harmed, ever.

Ratchet put his hands on the other mech’s shoulders. “Don’t worry so much about it, Omega. It’s by making mistakes you learn, sometimes. Now, would you like to come with me? I have a few tutorial quests to do for my Healer character and I wouldn’t mind some company. You’re game?”

Omega’s beaming smile was all the answer Ratchet ever needed.

He may dislike the way healing was handled in this game, finding it illogical and stupid, but if it helped Omega have a good time?

Then he would be doing it and smile all the fragging way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for our medic friend right now.  
> Next time : Bulkhead!


End file.
